The Colonel's Lady
by LLLady Southwark
Summary: ...That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States... Thrust into the past, a modern young woman must contend with the dueling antipathies of a warring nation and her own warring heart. Complete & Revised.
1. Story of My Life

**Author's Note****: I am sorry to disappoint anyone looking for something new and exciting—this story is not new, nor has it been completely revised. The story headed in a completely different direction than I envisioned when I first began writing it, with the result that there were some initial plot points I didn't end up using. I was also unhappy with the quality of and characterization within the first few chapters; those have been updated, extended or condensed in order to fit better within the arc of the story as a whole. **

**Thank you so much for your patience and your support if you've been reading all along, and if you're new to the adventures of Kat and company, I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I've enjoyed writing!**

**Disclaimer****: I obviously don't own Colonel Tavington or "The Patriot" or any of the other characters in it, in this chapter or in any subsequent ones. Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence are all mine, though.**

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_June 2007_

"Maybe I'm stupid!" Paris cried, his beautiful brown eyes filling with tears of frustration. "Maybe I'm holding you back!"

"You're not—holding me back!" I retorted, trying not to give in to the nasty little voice in my head that whispered that this was the truth. "Paris, don't do this to me. Not now. Please. Let's just—"

"Just _what_, Jess? You want to go away and pretend this never happened? I cannot just step aside and let you go!" Paris looked like he was in pain. I couldn't stand to see it, but I couldn't do what he asked.

I had always known it would be difficult when we graduated from high school, that things between us would have to change, but I had never imagined that it would come to this. Instead of celebrating on the night of my graduation, commemorating the end of an era with all of the people I loved, I was having a fight of epic proportions with Paris. I couldn't see how this could possibly end well, and somehow I knew that everything was going to change, sooner than I had expected.

Taking a deep breath, I fought to steady my voice. "Paris, listen to me. I'm 18. I'm about to go to Harvard. I can't—_marry you_—not yet! I need a few years, and then—"

"A diversion! You're going to double-major in archaeology and engineering—and minor in American History and who knows what else—and in the meantime, I'll be back here, and you'll forget all about me!" He ran a hand through his dark brown curls, tousling them unselfconsciously.

"I could _never _forget about you! You're part of me—Paris, I love you, and you know that!" Why was he doing this to me? And why now? As if leaving home wasn't going to be enough of a burden…

Paris said nothing, but the tears welling in his soulful eyes spoke volumes. I suddenly felt completely overwhelmed—guilty at doing this to him, sad that our blissful high school years were over—and somehow, a little angry. And I couldn't stay there a minute longer.

"I—I've got to go. I'll call you later. Paris—listen—I'm sorry," I said, nearly weeping myself. Turning, I ran out of the room, dashed up the stairs, and was out his front door before he could even think about stopping me.

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Sometimes it seemed like Paris and I had been together our whole lives. We had, in a sense: we'd grown up on neighboring farms, and we'd always been friends. Paris had taught me to ride, and some of my best memories from my childhood were the races we used to have. He might have had better technique, but I always won. And that pattern stuck. Once things finally heated up between us during sophomore year, we were the It couple. But I was the one who got the glory, who made straight A's and was elected prom queen. Paris was my driving force, but sometimes I felt guilty that he was always in my shadow. Still, he'd never complained…at least not until now.

I had always known I couldn't stay here forever. South Carolina was home, but I needed to get away, to see the world, to _experience_ more than county fairs and debutante balls, to be someone completely new. The day I had gotten the big envelope from Harvard, I could tell that everything was going to change, and I was excited. Paris had seemed okay with it at first, too; I knew that he was happy for me on some level, even now. But as graduation had approached, Paris just clung to me more firmly, and it had ended in—a marriage proposal. I mean, I loved Paris, but…marriage?

I had always done everything that was expected of me, but now it was time to break the mold. For once in my life, I wanted to experience something that everyone in my town hadn't done. I wanted an _adventure_. And marrying Paris—at least now—would be a guarantee of exactly the opposite.

Tears blurred my vision as I stormed through the rolling fields between Paris's house and mine. I couldn't remember ever feeling so wrong-footed, and I couldn't possibly go to the graduation party now. Everyone there knew me as self-assured Jess, and I was completely incapable of putting on a happy face when I felt like my world had abruptly been turned upside-down.

I halted, squinting toward the dark wood that met the fields behind our houses. I could have sworn I'd seen something there, a flash of metal on the ground within the shade of the trees. Intrigued, I headed toward the woods, my confusion about Paris pushed firmly to the back of my consciousness.

As I walked toward the woods, I began to feel as though I were heading for something very different than the familiar trees beneath which I'd spent so many childhood summers. With each step I took, I felt somehow more removed from the overwhelming drama of my fight with Paris. I was so caught up in my quest to find out what I had seen just inside the trees that I was completely shocked when I heard a voice calling my name. "Jessica!" It was Paris, and he was well behind me, but he must have figured out I was heading for the woods.

I couldn't talk to him, not yet. I sped up, determined to buy myself some time by losing myself in the darkness of the trees. In a moment I had reached the woods—but as I looked around, there was no sign of the glint I had seen from the field. I kept walking, still half-hoping I would discover something to take my mind off my current plight. It was pitch black, but I wasn't scared—how could I be, when I'd spent half my life in these woods?

I walked deeper, and the thickening trees hid almost all light from the moon. I slowed down, realizing abruptly that I could barely see five feet in front of me. And yet—I was conscious of light coming from somewhere to my left. I turned and squinted through the tree trunks to see something emitting a dim glow. I picked my way cautiously toward it, stumbling into a large clearing. And then I saw it: an enormous sword with a gilded gold hilt, gleaming as though it stood in afternoon sunlight. I blinked hard and opened my eyes again, but it was still there. Was this some kind of trick? The pragmatist in me assumed it was, but I had an overwhelming urge to touch the sword and feel it for myself.

I took a step toward it, hand outstretched, but my foot caught under a tree root and I fell to the ground, stunned. Darkness overcame the world.

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I awoke to blinding light. I sat up and looked around, disoriented, my head throbbing, my left ankle sore. It was definitely morning—had I really slept all night in the woods? My parents would be so worried! And Paris—I had to go see him. I stumbled to my feet, groggy and in serious need of a Frappuccino. As I picked my way through the woods toward my house, I recalled my bizarre vision of the night before. Had I just imagined that sword? And why had the desire to touch it been so irresistible? I had always been skeptical of the supernatural, and in the bright sunlight that soaked through the tree branches, the whole thing seemed much more like a load of mumbo-jumbo. What I really needed to worry about now was what on earth I was going to say to Paris to make him feel better about my refusal without making him think I'd changed my mind. Completely lost in my thoughts, I didn't notice until I stepped out into the cotton fields behind my house that something was very wrong.

My house was not there.

Panicked, I ran forward through the field—but there was just more field, stretching out in front of me. I flipped out, biting my tongue to keep from screaming. Where was Paris? He'd know what to do! Instinctively, I ran toward the path that connected our houses—but that wasn't there either. "Paris!" I shrieked, now completely freaked. Almost instantly a sound greeted my ears, but it wasn't the one I had been expecting. Horses, and a lot of them. I ran forward, seeing at last an end to the rows of cotton, and came out into a narrow dirt lane. And then I saw them—about thirty men and horses. I recognized their unmistakable forest-green coats instantly. These were Green Dragoons—not for nothing had I aced my AP US History test!

But what were men in Green Dragoon uniforms doing here? Could this be a reenactment? They did those sometimes, though they were usually later in the summer and nearer to major battle sites. This had to be a reenactment—but that did nothing to explain where my house was. Whoever these men on horseback were, they must know _something_…I'd just have to ask them. I stepped to the side of the road and raised my hand in greeting.

The Dragoons were all around me in an instant. One of them, leaping off of his horse, approached me. He was burly and unshaven, a leer on his face. "Watchoo doin here, all by youssef?" he growled at me, smirking. "Dressed like that…people'll think you's up to no good."

I looked down at my clothes. They weren't my best or anything, but my New Glasgow High Patriots sweatpants were my favorite, and my t-shirt was at least clean. Before I had a chance to say anything, though, he spoke again. "How'd you get all the way out here? You a trollop, or somethin'?"

A _trollop_? Wasn't this taking things a bit far? Even reenactors had to come out of character sometime… I put my hands on my hips, threw my long blonde hair back over my shoulder, and glared at the man. "Just who the hell do you think you are?!"

The man's jaw dropped open. "You—you—take her, lads!" He swung himself up on his horse again while several others leapt off theirs. One of them grabbed my waist and lifted me up onto his own horse. I tried to kick him, but there were too many of them, and another one hit me across the face with the back of his hand. "That'll teach you to use words like that! Comin' from a _lady_…"

I could feel my cheek bruising, and I reached up and felt blood. I had to stop fighting, or there would only be more where that came from. I looked up at the one who had hit me. His deep brown eyes were filled with malice, and I knew there would be no sympathy from him. "Oh, _Paris_, where are you?" I whispered pleadingly, wishing desperately that my beloved were here to save me and knowing somehow that that was impossible.

"Watchoo on about?" growled the man. "Take 'er ter the Colonel. 'E'll know what ter der wit' 'er."

The first man leapt up onto the horse behind me with a nod and a chuckle. "She's in good 'ands here, Sir." He grasped me tightly around the waist and whispered menacingly, " 'Ear that, Miss? I'm to take you to the Colonel. And I want none o' that fuss, or you'll regret the day you was born." I gulped nervously. I'd just have to use my energy to plan an escape as soon as I could…or find a way to steal a rifle.

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General Lord Charles Cornwallis strode back and forth along the length of his tent, grimacing, face reddening with anger. The Southern campaign was going as well as could be expected; it would not be long before all of South Carolina was firmly in British control. And yet the General found that he was anything but pleased with the present situation in which he found himself.

He paused next to his writing desk and banged his fist down upon its surface so hard that the ink in the inkpot splattered all over his papers. This did nothing to improve his mood.

"Is something the matter, Milord?" General O'Hara said pleasantly.

Cornwallis was hardly in a humor to be patronized by O'Hara. "Of _course_ something is the matter, O'Hara, or I would hardly be wasting my energy pacing about this tent, would I?" He took a deep breath, his face turning redder still as he remembered the report he had just received. Certainly the Dragoons had won the day, but that was hardly the only consideration in delicate circumstances such as these, and if that man didn't learn to control his temper—!

"Would I be correct to assume that this has something to do with Colonel Tavington's conduct, Milord?" O'Hara's tone was light, but even the mention of the colonel's name sent Cornwallis's jowls a-trembling.

"I cannot have him continuing in this manner, O'Hara! He must be stopped!" Cornwallis took a pinch of snuff and glared at his deputy.

"You could send him—elsewhere, Milord, where he would be of less harm to your reputation."

Cornwallis frowned, waving a hand to dismiss O'Hara's suggestion, which he knew to be motivated by a strong dislike of Tavington. "Nonsense! He's too valuable an asset. No, I must find some way of moderating him. He needs a tempering influence. His brutal tactics must cease." He gazed into the distance, hoping for some sort of epiphany.

"I hear eunuchs are extremely well-tempered," muttered O'Hara. Fortunately for him, his superior did not hear his suggestion, having just thought of the idea he had been seeking.

"He needs a woman, O'Hara!" Cornwallis turned back to his companion, the cherries on his overcoat quivering in his excitement.

O'Hara appeared unimpressed by the suggestion. "An..._interesting_ notion, Milord. But where is such a woman to be found?" He knew that no sane woman, let alone a well-endowed one, would come anywhere near Tavington.

"Therein lies the rub!" Cornwallis pointed an accusatory finger at O'Hara and resumed his pacing. "Where _is_ such a woman to be found?"

As if in answer to his question, a sentry appeared at the flap of his tent. "Milord?"

"What!" barked Cornwallis.

"The patrolmen have found someone, sir. A—young lady, sir. Out in the fields."

"Bring her in," the General growled, with a sidelong glance at O'Hara.

As Cornwallis turned away, O'Hara rolled his eyes. He knew how his superior liked to play matchmaker—though as long as the General's attentions remained focused on Tavington and not himself, he might enjoy the exercise quite a bit.

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	2. Get Your Hair Did

_June 1780_

Colonel William Tavington was most severely displeased. Then again, he was rarely in anything but a bad humor these days. He had indulged in the luxury of a long, solitary ride this morning, and it had actually put him closer to a good mood than he had been in recent memory; and then, the moment he arrived back in camp—

"Lieutenant Bligh!"

"Sir?" The lanky lieutenant stepped away from his friend, with whom he had been engaging in mock swordplay.

"How many times must I remind you to polish your sword, Bligh?" The younger man lowered his eyes to his weapon, which was grimy and dull, the polar opposite of the gleaming blade that was currently sheathed at Tavington's side. He looked sheepishly back up at the Colonel and tried to apologize.

"Sir, I—"

"No excuses, Lieutenant. I have made it clear that I do not accept anything less than perfection when it comes to uniform detail, and that applies in particular to weaponry." Bligh was an obedient soldier, but he was hopeless when it came to appearances; he never failed to have a uniform article out of place, a tendency which the compulsive Tavington found completely infuriating. Today, it had been the first stroke of irritation that, the Colonel knew, foreshadowed an entire day of unpleasantness. "If I have to mention anything of the kind to you one more time, you will no longer be riding with the Dragoons."

"Yes, sir," said the lieutenant, looking askance at his friend. This bode poorly for his friend, as it drew attention to the latter, and—

"Lawrence!" Tavington directed his icy blue gaze now at Bligh's friend. "What the _devil_ do you mean by that scarf?"

"Sir?" the other man replied, looking down at the offending article that was draped around his neck in a manner entirely unsuited to an officer in His Majesty's Army.

"Get rid of it, Lieutenant, and get out of my sight! Both of you!" Tavington's command was never one to be taken lightly, and both lieutenants scurried obediently away toward the center of camp. Tavington grunted and spun on his heel, marching toward his tent.

Upon reaching his solitary haven, Tavington sighed and sat down upon his cot. The everyday idiocies of soldiering were getting to him; having to manage such a bunch of dunderheads outside of a battlefield was more of a challenge than fighting had ever been, and every incident like the one with Bligh took its toll on the Colonel. How was His Majesty's Army ever to defeat decisively these tiresome rebellious colonists if the Green Dragoons—the most fearsome unit of the world's most powerful army—couldn't manage to keep their weaponry in order?

Tavington sighed again, massaging his temples. He didn't know how much longer he could serve as nursemaid to his incompetent lieutenants before he lost his mind entirely. He pulled off his boots, soiled with a morning's hard ride, and was just about to give them a much needed polish when he perceived a shadow just outside his tent. "Sir?" said a tentative voice. "Lord Cornwallis would like to see you, sir."

The polish would have to wait, then, if the General and his group of admirers wanted to see him. Tavington sighed once more, grimacing, pulled the boots back on, and marched out of his tent, nearly flattening the petrified boy who had been sent to fetch him.

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I had realized soon after the Dragoons took me that the only explanation for them, for the disappearance of my house and everything familiar, was that I had somehow stumbled back in history. And the only time it could be, given the pervasive British accents and those familiar uniforms, was sometime during the American Revolution. Though the still logical part of my brain refused to accept it, I was sure the moment I heard one of the men utter the name Cornwallis. I instantly forbade myself from considering the impossibility of the situation and resolved only to deal with the present moment. And at the moment, it appeared that I was to meet Cornwallis himself. I pushed all thought of my future, of Paris, resolutely away and thought about how best to convince the fearsome general that I was trustworthy.

I arrived in the General's tent manhandled and royally pissed off. I was glad to be rid of the Dragoons who had captured me, but who knew what awaited me once I met the General? From everything I had ever read, Cornwallis was not a man to be taken lightly. Just as I was racking my brains to try to remember some detail—anything that would give me a bargaining chip with Cornwallis—I heard the man himself. "Bring her in, Lieutenant."

The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of General Lord Cornwallis, one of the most famous Englishmen the world had ever known. He looked surprisingly gentle, and I found myself curiously at ease. "Well," Cornwallis said, looking me up and down. I realized belatedly that he must find my attire a little strange—but there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it now. "What is your name, miss?"

"Je—" I stopped abruptly, realizing that Jessica would be an exceedingly odd name for an 18th century woman. I decided to give him my middle name instead—it had been passed down in my family for generations, and I hoped it would sound somewhat more authentic. "Katerinalila."

He eyed me somewhat suspiciously and made a noncommittal noise. "Hmm. And you are from this area? My men said they found you alone in the cotton fields; where is your family?"

"Dead," I lied, my brain racing. "My mother had—consumption, and my father died of dysentery." At least all those hours of my childhood spent playing Oregon Trail had been good for something. "My mother sent me away to try to find help, but I knew she was done for. I've been wandering for—days…" That still didn't explain my sweatpants.

Thankfully, Cornwallis's sympathy seemed to have gotten the better of his skepticism. "My dear girl, we shall have you fit as a fiddle in no time. Nothing, of course, can atone for the loss of your parents, but you will learn to cope in time." Surprisingly, I found my eyes welling with tears—who knew when I'd see my parents again? No, I couldn't think about that yet. _"Focus, Jess,"_ I told myself firmly.

But it seemed that my unbidden tears had done more for my case than anything I had said previously. The General smiled sympathetically at me as a stray tear made its way down my cheek. He pulled out a handkerchief from a pocket in his coat and offered it to me. "There, there, my dear, you are in safe hands now."

"Thank you, sir," I sniffled, wiping my eyes and resisting the urge to dissolve into uncontrollable weeping. I gave the General a watery smile. "I'm sorry."

"Not at all, Miss Katerinalila," he said, his gaze suddenly pensive. He studied me for a moment. "Do you know, my dear, you remind me of my daughter. You look much as I imagine she would have, had she lived to be your age."

"Oh," I said, not sure quite what to say. "Thank you."

Cornwallis shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and turned to the officer who had been standing just inside the tent when I entered. "Lieutenant Lawrence, find this young lady something suitable to wear and show her to an empty tent. The one just next to Colonel Tavington's will do." He smiled at me and ate a lemon drop.

"Thank you so much for your help, General," I said, and meant it.

"Not at all, my dear," said Cornwallis. "These are dangerous times, and it isn't safe for a young lady to be alone. Once you're cleaned up, I would be delighted if you'd join me for dinner in my quarters."

"I would be honored," I said, and attempted a curtsey before I ducked out of the tent. As I left, I heard the General mutter to one of his aides to "fetch the Colonel." Could this be the mysterious Colonel that the Dragoons had been so keen to introduce me to this morning? I supposed I would have to wait and find out.

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Tavington flounced into the General's tent, epaulets bouncing. "You wanted to see me, Milord?" he said, injecting more than a touch of irritation into the words.

"Colonel. Delighted to see you," said Cornwallis unconvincingly. "You have heard, I assume, that your Dragoons picked up a young lady this morning on their patrol?"

"I had not," replied Tavington, mentally cursing that fool of a lieutenant, Bligh, for withholding information.

"Yes, well," said Cornwallis, obviously not much bothered. "You will be meeting her this evening; I am having something of a dinner party."

"I should be honored, Milord," said Tavington, sounding anything but.

Cornwallis eyed him, then began pacing. "I have noticed, Colonel, that you have seemed somewhat—discontented—of late. Perhaps you are not as suited for a life of soldiering as you once believed?"

Tavington paused, choosing his words carefully. It certainly wouldn't do to reveal the extent of his frustration. "General, I am more content with the Dragoons than I could be in any other profession. I flatter myself that I am well-suited to be a commander of men. However, I confess I have been troubled lately as to the degree of upkeep required by the soldiers under my command."

"Hmm," said the General. "Much as I expected. Tavington, I believe you are in need of a…tempering influence." He looked expectantly at the Colonel.

"Milord?" Tavington hadn't the least idea what Cornwallis was getting at.

"A woman, Tavington. You need a wife," barked the General.

Tavington could only blink stupidly. "A wife? But I have Bligh to polish my boots, and Lawrence to cook my sausages. What could I possibly need a wife for?" Sometimes he did wonder where on earth the General got his odd notions. On top of which, he couldn't imagine where Cornwallis proposed to find him a wife: surely he didn't expect Tavington to acquire a bride from the _colonies_?

Cornwallis chuckled at Tavington's confusion. "What for? I am sure you don't need me to tell you, Tavington."

Tavington wanted nothing more than to escape from the General's tent. "If that was all, sir…"

Cornwallis waved a lace-cuffed hand in the Colonel's direction. "Yes, yes, we'll talk more about it later. Seven o'clock, my quarters. And Tavington—" the General's eyes strayed down to Tavington's unpolished boots "—do something about _those_."

"Sir," said Tavington, bowing and practically tripping over the offending footwear in his haste to flee.

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Lieutenant Bligh, whom Cornwallis had charged with finding me a dress, seemed rather perturbed. From the moment we left the General's tent, he refused to meet my eye, answering my queries as briefly as possible.

"So you're a lieutenant?"

"Yes, Miss," he mumbled.

"From England?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Where in England?"

He mumbled something monosyllabic; I couldn't tell whether he had said "Perth" or "Firth," and though I thought both were in Scotland, not England, I decided not to pursue it.

I couldn't get another word out of him. He seemed embarrassed, and I couldn't figure out why: surely my sweatpants weren't _that_ offensive. But something was definitely bothering Lieutenant Bligh. He continually quickened his pace, so that I was practically skipping to keep up with his lengthy stride; I think he was hoping that if I had to run, I would have to stop asking him questions. Finally, we reached a large, out-of-the-way tent, and the lieutenant stopped abruptly.

"I will wait here to escort you to the General's tent, Miss," he said, and bowed at me.

"Um," I said, wanting to ask what I was supposed to be doing, but he merely frowned at me and adjusted his scarf. Not wanting to upset the good lieutenant any more than I already had, I ducked into the tent—

—and found myself surrounded by—erm—"ladies of the evening." At least, that's what I assumed they were; they were all heavily rouged and in various stages of undress, several of them taking swigs from a flask and all of them laughing lustily. When I entered, the conversation gradually ceased as they all took in my appearance, but almost immediately, the laughing began again. I stood near the tent's entrance, wondering what I should do; but just as I was about to approach the group, one older woman disengaged herself from her companions and, taking a lengthy gulp from her flask, wandered over to me.

"Whadd'ya need, love?" she inquired, eyes fixed on the logo on my sweatpants.

"I—um—General Cornwallis wanted me to—I need a dress," I finally managed to get out, overwhelmed by the smell of rum on the woman's breath.

"You do, eh? Well, you's come to th' right place," wheezed the woman. "Over 'ere. Let's see what we's got."

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Lieutenant Bligh leaned his head back against a tree, closed his eyes, and sighed heavily. Taking innocent young ladies to the whore's tent was not his idea of a pleasant task, though at least he hadn't seen Tavington since this morning—orders from the Colonel when he was in a mood like he was today were not only unpleasant, they were downright sadistic. He sighed again, straightened himself up—and found himself face-to-face with Lawrence.

"Where in the blazes have you been?!" Lawrence said, clearly agitated. "Tavington's in a tizzy!"

"Nice to see you too, mate," replied Bligh testily. "What's the matter now?"

"He came back from the General's tent all in an uproar and bade me thrice polish his boots!" Lawrence was obviously very upset about this.

Bligh stroked his chin thoughtfully. The Colonel's compulsive tendencies were legendary, but that seemed excessive, even to such veterans of Tavington's torturous taskmastery as Bligh and Lawrence. "What do you reckon the General said to him?"

"I haven't the foggiest! But it's certainly made him quite unpleasant!" Lawrence frowned at Bligh as though it were somehow his fault.

"Well, then, you'd best remove that scarf before he sees you again," Bligh said sensibly.

Lawrence sighed moodily and removed the scarf for the second time that day. His neck was uncomfortable cold without it, but he knew Bligh was right: a cold neck would be the least of his worries if Tavington caught him sporting a non-uniform accessory when he was in a mood like this. "Well, I'd best be off; the Colonel needs me to assist in dressing him for dinner. You'd better come along when you're finished hear. You know how many buttons there are on that waistcoat, and he's _so_ particular!"

"I'll be along shortly," said Bligh, sighing at Lawrence's melodrama.

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By the time I made it to dinner, I was completely disoriented. My new friend, whose name I couldn't quite decipher between her slurred speech and her thick accent, had crammed me into a corset and shoes too small for my feet, plus what felt like seven layers of crinoline petticoats and skirts. The dress she had found was actually quite pretty, though; it was silk, the precise shade of cornflower blue that matched my eyes—the same shade Paris had always loved me in—and had beautiful lace trim along the bodice and cuffs. I had complained vociferously when she pulled my corset too tight, but rather than acquiescing to my demand that she get the damn thing away from me, she told me in no uncertain terms to shut up and poured rum down my throat, then went to work on my hair. So, between my inability to breathe, the fact that I'd just consumed more alcohol than I had in my entire life, and the persistent voice in the back of my head that kept telling me that I wasn't going to be born for 200 years, I was not exactly at my best.

However, I must have looked okay, because the look Lieutenant Bligh gave me when I was finally released from my torturer's grasp and stumbled out of the tent was nothing short of admiring astonishment.

"Do you like my dress, Lieutenant?" I couldn't resist spinning a little, perhaps to accompany my spinning head.

"Yes, Miss," he said obediently, and offered me his arm. "I'm to escort you to dinner in the General's tent, Miss."

I smiled at him and took the proffered limb. As we meandered back across the camp to Cornwallis's tent, I couldn't help but notice that I was attracting a fair bit of attention from the soldiers. However, I was determined to ignore their advances, especially when I saw Paris's doppelganger leering at me again. Nothing could replace Paris in my affections, even if I had no idea when I would see him again.

Firmly resolved on this point, I was bowed into the General's tent by Lieutenant Lawrence, who seemed in a hurry to get away. Almost instantly, Cornwallis swooped down upon me. "Miss Katerinalila! You look enchanting, my dear. Wine?" he queried, not waiting for my response before he pressed a glass into my hand.

"Thank you," I replied, bewildered.

"I am very sorry to make you wait, my dear, but one of my officers is meant to be joining us. Please do make yourself comfortable," he said, gesturing me toward the table, which was already set. I made to pull the seat out, but he pre-empted me, and I practically fell into the chair. Smiling, Cornwallis seated himself next to me, at the head of the table. "Do try the wine, my dear. It's French, and you know what they say about French wine!"

I didn't know what they said about French wine, but I sipped obediently as the General winked at me. It was surprisingly drinkable. "It's lovely. Thank you, General."

"Not at all, Miss Katerinalila." The General seemed especially jovial this evening. "I thought I would tell you a bit about the gentleman who's due to be dining with us. His name is William Tavington, and he is without a doubt one of the most distinguished soldiers I have ever had the pleasure of commanding."

"Mmm," I said, sipping my wine to avoid having to respond.

"He comes of a noble family—surely you've heard the name?" Taking my blank look as an affirmation, Cornwallis took a sip of his own wine and continued his bizarre monologue. "And, as anyone may tell you, he has a most promising future in His Majesty's Army. Most promising, indeed." He nodded to himself and drank some more wine.

The General appeared to have no more designs on conversation for the moment and was focused on finishing his wine. Since I had already finished my own, I decided to carry on the conversation—if I had to spend an evening with this Tavington, I wanted to be prepared. "What ab—what of his…character?"

"His character…" Cornwallis said, and gulped down the remainder of his wine, signaling for more. "Tavington is—"

Whatever Tavington was, I never heard, because just then a commotion outside reached our ears. "You are two of the most ineffectual _yobs_ whose parents ever purchased them a commission!" I could hear what sounded like muffled apologies, followed by more from the owner of the first voice. "Apologies will not be accepted, Lawrence! Thanks to your incompetent buttoning, my waistcoat no longer closes properly! And Bligh! Is that a _scuff_ I see?!"

I glanced over at General Cornwallis, who appeared to be focusing intently on finishing his second glass of wine and did not seem at all cognizant of the brouhaha directly outside his tent. "General, who—?"

My question was interrupted by a last burst of shouting, closer and louder than ever. "No more excuses, Bligh! I shall have your ascot if _anything_ is amiss again! And you, Lawrence! It will be your neck on the line, whether or not it is wrapped in that impudent scarf!" And with that,

Colonel William Tavington, pride of King George's military and legendary commander of the Green Dragoons, exploded into the tent—and into my life.

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	3. Errbody in the Club

Colonel Tavington stopped in his tracks, piercing blue eyes focused on me. My first thought was that he was incredibly attractive—but the more coherent part of my brain wondered whether that were the wine's effects. My bleary eyes swept downward, taking in every detail of his immaculate uniform, from the shining boots to the improperly buttoned waistcoat about which he was so incensed. He was tall and well-built, his dark hair pulled back into a tight military queue. I concentrated and managed to focus—and, when I did so, met the Colonel's frigid gaze. As appalling as his display at the pitiable lieutenants had been, I was completely entranced. Something about those eyes penetrated into the very depths of my being. And then—

The Colonel abruptly turned from me to address himself to Cornwallis, who at this juncture was rather red in the face. "My apologies, General. I found myself obliged to give rather a harsh lesson in the ways of military life to Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence. They are not fit to wear the uniforms of Green Dragoons! The ignominious louts aren't even fit to work the cotton fields!"

I could do nothing more than gape at the Colonel. His callousness astonished me; I understood now why Cornwallis had been less than forthright when describing his character. The overwhelming attraction that I had felt a moment before had dissipated, to be replaced by tacit animosity. The General, however, didn't seem at all perturbed.

"Not at all, Tavington, Miss Katerinalila and I were just having a pre-dinner chat," said Cornwallis, tittering.

"Miss—I'm sorry?" said Tavington, turning to me.

I bobbed my head awkwardly. "Katerinalila, Colonel. Delighted to make your acquaintance," I cooed, crossing my fingers under the tablecloth.

"Miss Katerinalila," he repeated acidly. "Charmed."

"_I'm sure_," I thought. But before I could say anything, the General pre-empted me.

"Have a seat, Colonel, and some of this delightful wine. It's French, you know!" And he giggled again, gesturing to the chair on his other side. I was beginning to think that perhaps the General was a bit tipsy. Not unlike myself.

Tavington glowered and, pulling back the seat opposite me, settled into it, displeasure etched across his handsome features. I glared right back at him, determined not to be taken down by such an irritable, hateful—

"And so, my dear, you meet the Colonel at last!" Cornwallis seemed to have a fascination with this Tavington, though why, I could not see. He turned back to our dinner companion. "Drink up, Colonel, there's plenty more where that came from!"

The Colonel grimaced again and gulped down the wine. Instantly, Cornwallis gestured to the serving boy to fill his glass, but didn't say anything further. I watched Tavington sip his drink, transfixed. It was definitely more than the wine talking: the man was _hot_. Abruptly, I realized that Cornwallis was watching my assessment of Tavington with what looked suspiciously like pleasure on his face. I instantly turned to him and smiled nervously.

The General smiled back. "I am sure, my dear, that you've heard all about the Colonel's recent exploits, even hidden in the backwoods as you have been." Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Tavington's obvious disdain at the mention of the backwoods. I turned to glare at him fully, but he ignored me and concentrated on draining his glass, which was instantly filled yet again. With an effort, I focused on the General, who was still talking, and placed a smile on my face once more.

"…was especially spectacular. Really, Colonel, you outdid yourself there." The General settled back in his chair, clearly expecting Tavington to enter into the conversation.

The Colonel took up the cue, glancing surreptitiously at me as he did so. "Thank you, sir," he said smoothly. "You give me entirely more credit than is due, however. A monkey could outwit these traitorous buffoons in battle."

"Buffoons?!" I couldn't help myself.

"_Backwoods_ buffoons," said Tavington maliciously, meeting my gaze. "Would you describe otherwise these turncoats, who would reject the grandeur of his Majesty's reign in favor of the disgraceful rule of this 'Congress' of farmers and rumrunners that fancies itself _enlightened_?"

"You—you—" I spluttered incomprehensibly, unable to articulate my rage at his utter contempt of everything that America stood for. But I suddenly remembered where—and _when_—I was; and, now that I thought about it, the Colonel was eyeing me with distinct suspicion. Even Cornwallis had paused the near-continuous flow of wine down his throat to listen to what I was saying. "—are absolutely right, Colonel," I finished weakly. "These people deserve what they get. I object only to your characterization of the poor ignorant souls as 'buffoons.' After all, they are misguided, not necessarily unintelligent. And, in any case," I continued, seeing the Colonel continue to glare at me, though the tension in his face was gone, "they deserve our pity, having had the lack of fortune—or imprudence—to be compelled to defy his Majesty." Mentally exhausted, but pleased with my quick recovery, I took a long sip of wine. Perhaps I should stop drinking soon, as the Colonel had again become two Colonels, both of whom were still looking daggers across the table at me.

"A most compassionate view, Miss Katerinalila," said Cornwallis, clearly happy that Tavington and I were getting along so well. "Now, shall we eat?"

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Lieutenant Bligh took a long swig of rum from the flask he always kept at his side, exhaling deeply after he did so.

"Long day, eh, chap?" said Lawrence feelingly. "Give us a taste?"

Bligh obligingly passed the flask over to his friend. "Have you ever seen the Colonel in a mood like that before? The General must have really ruffled his feathers today, eh?"

Lawrence nodded in mute agreement, the rum warming his belly. "Whatever do you suppose the General's up to?"

Bligh shrugged. "Dunno. Matchmaking again?" Everyone remembered Cornwallis's disastrous attempts to wed Captain O'Hara to an Austrian countess on vacation in the Colonies, who had turned out in fact to be a count.

Lawrence shook his head soberly, taking the flask back from Bligh as he did so. His nod became noticeably less sober as he took another drink. "You've met the lady. What was she like? I only saw her from a distance this morning."

Bligh took a moment to digest the question, and his alcohol. "She was…a bit odd. Quite willing to speak, and her accent sounded…different."

"Different even from what you hear from the ruffians 'round here?" Lawrence said incredulously. Bligh nodded, and both retreated into their own thoughts.

After a moment, Lawrence took another swig from the flask and passed it back to his friend, who snapped out of his meditation immediately and accepted the rum gratefully.

Lawrence brightened suddenly. "Say, did you ever hear the one about the Prussian with the game leg?"

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We had only just finished our main course—quail, as far as I could tell—and already Tavington and I were enemies. He kept baiting me, trying to get me to betray some trace of the patriotism he clearly knew I harbored, but I parried his verbal thrusts as best as the French wine permitted. General Cornwallis, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware of the enmity that was brewing at his dinner table; and by the time dessert was served, he was as red as the cherries on his waistcoat and extremely jovial. Almost too jovial, in fact.

"Have some more brandy, Colonel!" he said cheerfully. "And you, my dear—some sherry, perhaps?"

"No, no, thank you, General," I said, in what I hoped was a reasonably polite and not terribly slurred voice. I had had enough French wine to last me until—well, whatever the next century was.

Tavington accepted his brandy without comment and again drained his glass. I was glad to note that he, too, looked more than slightly drunk, the pure blue of his eyes now rimmed by a slight red.

Clearly glad to see that his guests were sated, the General settled back into his chair and considered both of us. "Well, Miss Katerinalila—Colonel—I am sure you have guessed by now why I invited you both here this evening."

Clueless, I glanced over at Tavington. He did not meet my eyes, but seemed instead to have some idea as to what was going on, as he was now determinedly chugging brandy directly from the decanter. Nodding happily, the General commenced with a speech that had clearly been on his mind throughout the meal.

"My dear," he said, addressing himself first to me, "you could not have found your way into our protection at a more opportune tune. Not only have we had the fortune to rescue you from the roving bands of brigands that roam these parts, but we have done so at a time when you are most vulnerable. The loss of your dear parents is tragically lamentable; you need now, more than ever, to be protected."

My head cleared for a moment, long enough to remember that my parents were in fact lost to me, nearly two and a half centuries away, and I found myself fighting back tears. Without meaning to, I glanced at Tavington, and saw, unexpectedly, that his hard gaze had softened; but in a moment he stiffened back into the unfeeling brute he had seemed all evening. Cornwallis patted me gently on the cheek and handed me a handkerchief.

"There, there, my dear," he said kindly. "But the only thing for us now is to find another way to protect you from these uncertain times." And, on that enigmatic note, he turned to Tavington, who seemed prepared for the worst. "You, Colonel, have proven time and again a consummate soldier, willing to risk all to complete whatever mission is given you; but, as we discussed this morning, I think it is high time you settled down. Therefore—" Cornwallis looked straight ahead, determinedly looking at neither of us. I had an odd sense of foreboding as my boggled brain attempted to process what the General was saying— "I have arranged a wedding for five days hence. Congratulations!" And, raising his glass to the heavens, Cornwallis drank deeply.

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Tavington sat stony-faced in his chair, watching the bustle that surrounded his…betrothed. He had known perfectly well what the General was up to after that talk this morning—who could forget the 'Countess' von Stammtisch?—but for Cornwallis to presume that he, Colonel William Tavington, would condescend to wed this unconnected colonial of questionable loyalty—why, it was damned insolent! He downed the remainder of his brandy, watching Lawrence fan the girl's face, holding smelling salts to her nose, as Cornwallis hovered like a mothering hen. The wench opened her eyes abruptly, fluttering her eyelashes, and sat up.

"I—I think—General, I think I should go—to bed," she finished weakly, accepting the glass of water Cornwallis held out to her.

"Of course you shall, my dear. We will talk again in the morning," said Cornwallis kindly. "Lawrence, take her to her tent!" The lieutenant nodded and helped the girl up. She leaned heavily on his arm as she tottered out of the tent, clearly drunk. Well, at least she wasn't afraid of alcohol. Tavington stood and addressed himself to the General.

"I really must protest, Milord. I appreciate your…effort…in pursuing a wife for me; but we know nothing of this girl's family, her loyalties. How can I be expected to—"

Cornwallis cut him off mid-sentence. "None of that, Tavington. I explained to you this morning that you need a tempering influence, and this girl will provide one. She's perfect. I want none of this hesitation, Colonel!" he thundered, as Tavington again attempted to protest. "I made my intentions clear; and if you have any desire of maintaining your position, let alone advancing, or of securing your future once this colonial squabble is over, you _will_ marry Katerinalila. That is an order, Colonel Tavington!" he bellowed, seeing the unfortunate Colonel once again preparing to defy him. "Now get out of my sight! I will see you in the morning!"

Tavington bit his tongue and turned sharply, marching out of the tent. He couldn't even begin to contemplate the outrage that the General had just imposed upon him. Seeing Cornwallis's prized hounds standing outside, he was sorely tempted to kick them; but there was too much of a risk that the General would see him. Lawrence would have to do. Served him right, the nancy boy.

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	4. 21 Questions

When I opened my eyes, I immediately wished I hadn't. My head was throbbing, and it felt like I had been hit by a train. My tongue was sandpaper, and my bleary eyes felt almost crossed, as though I'd never be able to focus quite properly again. I groaned, closed my eyes, and buried my head into the pillow—which seemed somehow unfamiliar. I must have fallen asleep at Paris's. My parents were never especially thrilled when that happened; I should go home. I groaned again—and then jerked awake completely when an unfamiliar voice harrumphed and addressed itself to me.

"Miss Katerinalila?" Lieutenant Lawrence said, clearly unhappy with being charged the task of awakening me. "Breakfast is ready in the General's tent when you're ready."

"Mmmrrrrpphhhgggnnn," I growled, dropping my forehead into my hands. My headache had somehow managed to get worse with the reminder of where I was. Not Paris's house—no, in 1770-something, in the middle of a camp. Engaged to an insufferable jerk—'_Oh, please let me have dreamt that!_' I thought wildly, but I knew that if the rest of it wasn't a dream, that was hardly likely to be one either.

"I'll be outside, Miss," Lawrence said, bowing himself out of my tent.

I groaned again and rolled out of bed, nearly tripping over my own feet when I tried to walk. I was still wearing the dress I had worn to the disastrous dinner party last night—that explained, in part, the stomach issues I was experiencing, as the corset would be less than comfortable at the best of times—but it would just have to do, as I didn't have any other acceptable wardrobe options. Opposite my bed was a small dressing-table with a warped, colored mirror perched atop it. I peered into it and instantly gave up any hope of making myself presentable. My hair, normally straight and tame—albeit with a tendency to frizz—had not taken kindly to its treatment the night before and now resembled nothing so much as a beehive. I was probably deathly pale, though it was hard to tell in the tinged glass, and my eyes were obviously red. Oh, well, desperate times called for desperate measures, and it certainly wasn't as though I had anyone to impress. I straightened the lace collar of my dress—which, I noticed, had a small stain on it from the French wine—and marched out to meet Bligh.

The lieutenant, I noticed, looked decidedly the worse for wear. He didn't appear to have slept, and he seemed rather jumpy. When he noticed that I had emerged from my tent, he leapt slightly and adjusted his scarf, grimacing as he did so. "May I escort you to Lord Cornwallis, Miss?" he said, offering me his arm.

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Tavington and Cornwallis were already in the tent when I arrived, deep in a whispered conversation that had Tavington looking belligerent and Cornwallis as if he'd like to slap him. Cornwallis stopped talking abruptly when he noted my entrance and turned to me with a magnanimous smile that became a tad strained as he took in my appearance.

"Good morning, Miss Katerinalila! I trust you slept well?" he said, not waiting for an answer. "I do apologize for the lack of adequate clothing, my dear, but these blasted rebels cut off my supply lines time and again. Perhaps in a week or so…"

"Thank you, General, but I can make my own clothes," I said. "I took Home Ec—I mean, my mother was very good with a needle and thread." If I were going to keep up the charade without arousing suspicion, I would have to be more careful about what I let slip.

Cornwallis looked mildly surprised but merely nodded. "We shall arrange for materials to be sent to you at the earliest possible opportunity."

For the first time, I looked over at Tavington. He had a look of utter contempt on his face; apparently he wasn't fond of the idea of his bride-to-be as a seamstress—or perhaps he was merely concerned as to the sort of clothes I would make myself. I smiled brilliantly at him. "You don't have to worry, Colonel, I promise I won't make anything too…_flamboyant_. You wouldn't want to be outshined, would you?" '_Point, Jess,'_ I thought to myself as I sat down at the table. Cornwallis sat down next to me, blissfully unaware of the covert battle that was being waged. Tavington, glowering, took his seat opposite me.

"Tell me, Miss _Katerinalila_," he spat, "where did you acquire such an unusual name?"

"It's been in my family for generations," I said. "If it's too difficult for you, feel free to call me Kat."

Tavington did not look thrilled at the prospect of having a pet name for me. "Generations, you say. Exactly how long has your family been here, Miss _Kat_?"

It really was impressive how much venom he could inject into the pronunciation of a single syllable, but I wasn't about to be intimidated by his malevolence. "My…great-grandfather settled in Virginia when he was young. My relatives still have a plantation there, but…my parents decided to move here shortly after they got married." I _did_ have relatives in Virginia, though of course that didn't apply at the present time.

"Lovely!" pronounced Cornwallis happily. "Virginia's a delightful place! Well, except for the rebel rabble." He was clearly pleased with his alliterative insult. Tavington, however, looked surlier than ever.

"Lovely, indeed," he sneered maliciously. "Perhaps you'd care to go pay them a visit? Inform them of your approaching nuptials? Or have they left home to join in this _noble_ quest for independency?"

"They have done no such thing, Colonel! I will have you know that my relatives are respectable people!" I glared at him, hands on my hips. I was not about to take insinuations about my family's lack of honor, even if the family I was defending wasn't, strictly speaking, in existence at the moment.

"Respectable, Miss Kat? In whose view? In yours?" Tavington growled, leaning forward to glare at me more intently. "And what, _precisely_, does the term 'respectable' mean to you? I personally see no reason to respect fools willing to rush to their deaths in the service of a rebellion that has no hope of success, nor any credible motivation."

"I—" I stopped abruptly, knowing that whatever was about to roll off of my tongue in defense of patriotic ideals could very well get me killed in present company. "No, Colonel, nor do I. My relatives have no intention of getting caught up in this war, and neither would I, if I hadn't somehow ended up here. And I don't appreciate your questioning my loyalties, as if you hadn't done that enough times since last night."

"The lady's quite right, Tavington. Miss Kat is guilty of no more than appearing at the wrong place at the wrong time. You cannot continue to assume that every colonist that you meet will turn out a traitor; not only is it impolitic, it could be dangerous." Cornwallis looked more serious than I had yet seen him, and Tavington seemed to realize he was being chastised and, for once, held his tongue.

I took a sip of steaming tea from the china cup before me and grimaced. I'd never gotten used to drinking tea—except, of course, for chai lattes, which somehow didn't seem to count. And I didn't feel like pretending anything further at the moment, having to parry attacks from the odious man seated across from me every other moment. My brain needed a break. Abruptly, I pushed back my chair, resisting the attempts of the serving boy to help me. "Pardon me, General. I'm not feeling well. No, no, please—" I waved a hand as he made to stand up—"I'll be fine. I just need…a bit of time to myself."

"If you're sure you're all right, my dear…" Cornwallis said, looking doubtful. "Will you be joining us for dinner?"

Another horrid hour of sitting across from Tavington as he attempted to pick me apart? _'Well_,' I thought, _'I suppose I'll have to get used to it, if we're going to be—married._' I had to get out of here, stat. "Of course, General, thank you. Until then," I said, practically running out of the tent. I could feel Tavington's piercing blue gaze on me as I left, but I ignored him. I needed to be alone—but there were people, soldiers, everywhere, staring at me. I hurried through the camp, toward the only place I knew I would find solitude.

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The instant I was out in the woods, I felt calm, as I always had. For the first time since I'd arrived—here—I was by myself, and I could finally begin to ponder the more worrisome points of my situation. Well, not that the whole thing wasn't worrisome, but this marriage business…

No. I couldn't think about that yet. First of all—how did I get here? Obviously, there wasn't going to be any sort of clear answer to that, but—was there anything that was different about that particular night I had wandered into the woods that had opened up some sort of vortex in the time-space continuum? What date had it been? Graduation night…it seemed like a million years ago, even though it was far in the future…June 21st. The longest day of the year…

Maybe that was it! Maybe it was the solstice that had allowed me to slip into the past—some combination of the solstice, and my precise location. It wasn't the best formulated theory, but it was all I had; and if I aimed for the winter solstice—no. I could _not_ survive here until December—I would be a wreck by then, if I hadn't managed to escape—but where would I escape to? I didn't know anyone here. Well, if I couldn't wait until December, I would just have to try in September, at the equinox. Of course, I was supposed to be at Harvard by then—but would any time have passed when I got back to the future anyway? No, I'd think about that later, too.

So if I had three months to get through, what was the best way to deal with it? I couldn't handle Tavington's barely concealed animosity for much longer; arguing with him was both mentally draining and dangerous for me. I would just have to do my best to be nice, and prove myself a loyalist; and maybe, eventually, he'd stop trying to catch me in a lie. And, as to the marriage business…. Try as I might, I couldn't see any way out of it. I'd just have to play along with Cornwallis, and perhaps try to have a word with him on the side to make him see reason. Surely if he realized how much Tavington clearly hated me, he'd give up on trying to play matchmaker.

As I meandered back toward the camp, I pondered more on the marriage that had been so abruptly thrust into my horizon. I'd run out of Paris's house trying to escape being guilt-tripped into marrying him; and here I was, in a new environment, obliged to marry an entirely worse man, and one whom I would never love as much as I loved Paris, or at all. The irony was not lost on me.

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Lieutenant Bligh stood, bent over a writing table, intently examining the scrolls laid out before him. Every now and then he ran a large hand over the parchment, muttering to himself. He was very clearly absorbed in his task; and Lieutenant Lawrence, perched on a rather decorative stool, was just as clearly absorbed in the task of pestering him.

"Say, Bligh, what are you doing?"

"What does it appear that I'm doing?"

"I don't know! That's why I asked, isn't it?"

Bligh sighed deeply to himself, not bothering to look up. "I'm a cartographer. I make maps."

"Mmm. Sounds—fascinating." Lawrence twirled the quill he held between his fingers and touched the tip with his tongue, thinking. He sighed loudly to himself and rustled the scroll he held, dipping the quill to the paper and just as quickly withdrawing it. He sighed again and stood abruptly, pacing about the tent and shooting sideways glances at Bligh as he did so.

Bligh groaned to himself, knowing the racket stirring behind him would never cease unless he feigned an interest in Lawrence's activities. He turned around and addressed himself to his friend, noting as he did so that Lawrence's scarf was slightly askew. "What are you engaged in?"

A smile appeared on Lawrence's lips. "Oh, nothing really. I'm merely writing a letter. To my old schoolfellow Androclus, you know."

"Damned funny name for an Englishman," Bligh commented dryly, turning back to his maps.

"Oh, Androclus isn't his _real_ name," Lawrence said with an airy laugh. "We were very much Greek enthusiasts when we were at Eton. Ah, the times we used to have—all those hours spent pent up in the library, toiling over translations and discussing the intricacies of Homeric character development! There was one very memorable occasion in which Androclus and I snuck up into the bell tower, and…"

Bligh groaned again, aloud this time, and buried his face in his sizeable hands. His maps were not likely to get the attention they deserved until Lawrence's tale-telling had run its course.

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I wandered back into camp in a far better mood than when I had left it. My head felt clear, and I had a plan, which always made me feel good about life in general. Provided Tavington wasn't too horrific, I thought I'd get on just fine. I stopped in my tent on my way back to meet Cornwallis for dinner; might as well make myself presentable if I could. Today had not been a good day, but now that I was in a better mood, I felt the need to look better as well, even if it was just for Tavington.

As I ducked into my tent, my eye was immediately caught by a bright splash of color across my bed. It was a dress—scarlet silk, and much more flashier than the one I was currently sporting. The ladies I had met last night must have brought it for me—or perhaps Cornwallis had requested it. Goodness knows he'd been astonished at my appearance that morning. I struggled out of the blue dress and, after much stomping, swearing, and general frustration, donned the red one. I even sat down at my dressing table and took a moment to assess the damage my hair had sustained. No, not much hope there—perhaps I could get a brush somewhere? I needed a shower—but of course, that was out of the question. Maybe a bath, though, and preferably sometime soon. Oh, well, I'd done my best, and I didn't look nearly as disheveled as I had before. I even thought the scarlet suited me, as well as I could see in the mirror's distorted reflection.

I sauntered out of my tent and into the blinding late afternoon sunshine, very nearly happy. I felt infinitely better with my new dress and my plan, and I was prepared for anything Tavington could throw at me. I reached a clearing near the General's tent and, caught up in the moment and my mood, twirled about. And, abruptly, found myself face-to-face with Colonel Tavington, every inch of his person oozing dislike and disapproval.

"Well, well, Miss Kat," he purred, looking me up and down, "new clothing, I see. Did you manage to make yourself a dress in only a day? No, I doubt even the General's new favorite is so industrious. It must be a gift from an…admirer?"

With every word the Colonel spoke, I felt my good mood dissipating, to be replaced by an overwhelming desire to start screaming obscenities at him. However pleasant he might sound, the man was horrible. "I found it in my tent, Colonel. I assumed the General had sent it for me to wear to dinner."

The corner of his mouth turned up, and he emitted a sarcastic half-chuckle, stepping forward a fraction. "I rather doubt that General Cornwallis is your mysterious admirer. Though undoubtedly you have connections in high places. Tell me, what _is _your going rate?"

Without thinking, I brought back my arm and slapped him, hard, on the face. He took a step back, clearly shocked, but said nothing; and before I knew what was happening, he had half-drawn his sword.

"Tavington! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" Cornwallis had appeared suddenly, out of nowhere, and was striding rapidly toward Tavington. "Sheathe your sword, sir, at once! Good gracious me! Threatening a lady?!"

Tavington did as he was told, eyes glinting wickedly, but I heard him mutter "_Lady_" scornfully under his breath. Who the hell did he think he was, insinuating that I was— "My dear Miss Katerinalila, are you all right?" Cornwallis asked, his face full of genuine concern.

"I'm perfectly fine, General. The Colonel, on the other hand, is not. It appears that he's somewhat lacking in the art of social interaction. The world might be a safer place if you taught him some manners," I said, still bristling at the Colonel's intimation.

"The lady has a point, Tavington! Apologize at once," growled Cornwallis.

Tavington turned to me and gave me an ironic half-bow. "I beg your pardon, mi_lady_. I seem to have let my—baser instincts—get the better of me."

"Too right you have!" thundered the General. "I meant what I said to you yesterday morning, Colonel! It is high time you changed your ways and got hold of your temper. And," he said more calmly, turning to me and smiling, "since you seem to have realized the importance of turning over a new leaf _immediately_—" he glanced threateningly back at Tavington— "I've moved the wedding up to the day after tomorrow!"

"Milord, you _cannot—_"

"Do not presume to dictate to me, Tavington!" boomed the General, eyebrows drawing together fiercely. "Enough of this nonsense. You have no further say in the matter, Colonel. Now, go and do something useful with yourself."

"Apologies, Milord. I am off to a much-needed lesson in—_civility_," Tavington said smoothly, and turned back toward the Dragoon's section of camp.

Bligh and Lawrence never knew what hit them.

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	5. 99 Problems

As soon as Tavington had left, I seized the opportunity to talk to Cornwallis. "General," I began, not sure how best to phrase my argument. "I'm not sure that this—engagement—is the best idea."

The General chuckled—a bit nervously, it seemed to me. "Why ever would you say that, my dear?"

"Well, to begin with, I had always envisioned marrying someone that…well, that I had known for more than two days. And Colonel Tavington hates me," I added.

"Nonsense!" said Cornwallis unconvincingly. "The Colonel merely takes some getting used to. He is, to be sure, not the most…_gregarious_ of people. But he is a good man. And I assure you, my dear, if he truly hated you, as you say, he would have had a much more violent reaction to your presence here."

_More_ violent? Good grief, I'd probably be dead. "But, General—"

"And then, of course, there is the question of your security," Cornwallis interrupted smoothly. "I cannot ensure the safety of a pretty young woman in my camp, regrettably, either from without or within. I will feel much better once I know that you are safely married to Colonel Tavington. There will be no question that you are safe in his hands."

I wasn't done yet. "I can fend for myself, General. I've had to since—since I lost my parents." No, I _could not_ cry, not if I wanted to win this argument. I fought the tears back and interrupted Cornwallis before he could begin sympathizing. "And anyway, I have my own goals to pursue."

This time, the General's chuckle was obviously real. "What 'goals' might those be, my dear?"

I didn't appreciate his condescending tone. "Well, I plan to get an education, for one!"

Cornwallis laughed heartily. "Oh, Miss Kat, you are a feisty one! Now, let's set this little disagreement behind us, shall we?"

_Little_ disagreement? This was my _life_ we were talking about! I opened my mouth to protest, but he was too quick for me. "I am glad to see that you've come around, my dear. This is for the best. And now, if you'd like to proceed to my tent, I believe dinner will be ready." He smiled at me and offered me his arm. I saw no choice but to accept—though that didn't mean I was done fighting.

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After his encounter with the unfortunate lieutenants, Tavington's anger at the girl had abated to some degree. _Something_ about her was not right; the accent, her outspokenness, the way she dressed—she was unlike any woman he had met, even in this godforsaken bit of wilderness. And not in a pleasant way. Not in terms of her appearance—she was undoubtedly attractive (perhaps _too _attractive, Tavington thought, especially in that whore's dress she had been wearing this evening)—but the combination of her personality and the tale that had so garnered Cornwallis's sympathy did not sit well with him. She was hiding something, and Tavington was determined to find out what it was. Particularly if he was to be—_married_ to her.

Marriage. He found the concept unpalatable at the best of times; revolting when applied to himself; and absolutely unacceptable when it involved _Katerinalila_. Even her name was too much to be borne! And to think that Cornwallis now expected that he would share his life with her, at least in name…

Tavington pushed this unpleasant thought out of his mind and stood up, pacing about his tent. He _would_ think of something—this wedding could not proceed. Suddenly uncomfortable, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, grimacing as he did so—it was bloody _hot_ in this swamp they called a colony—and pulled out his sword. Settling onto his bed, he began sharpening with a ferocity that surprised even him.

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I was quiet during dinner with the General, less than pleased with him and wanting no more than to be alone with my thoughts once more. He seemed to realize this, making polite small-talk that didn't require any response besides an occasional pleasantry. I practically ran away once dinner was finished and settled in the first empty spot I found, underneath an enormous willow tree. Almost immediately, I began sobbing. I hadn't realized how desperately unhappy I was at the prospect of marrying Tavington until the reality of it set in; clearly, Cornwallis wasn't going to yield, and running away would do me no good—I still had nowhere to go. And the encounter with the Colonel before dinner had unnerved me. I had heard rumors around camp about his exploits; they called him "the Butcher," and after he had nearly pulled a sword on me several hours earlier, I could understand why. There didn't seem to be a sympathetic bone in his body; how was I going to survive being married to such a beast?

Lost in my thoughts, I didn't hear Bligh and Lawrence approaching until they were directly in front of me. I quickly attempted to dry my eyes but couldn't help sniffling a bit, and the lieutenants turned toward me immediately. Lawrence, I saw, was limping more pronouncedly than he had been earlier, and Bligh appeared to be sporting a cut on his lip.

"Miss Katerinalila!" said Lawrence. "Is anything amiss?"

"Please call me Kat, Lieutenant. No, I'm fine, thank you," I said, though of course nothing was further from the truth. "Is your leg all right?"

Lawrence walked over to me and lowered himself onto the ground next to me, grimacing as he sat down. Bligh remained standing, arms folded, looking around uncomfortably. I had the feeling he was somewhat more aloof than his friend. "Just part and parcel of the soldiering life—nothing to be concerned over. Is there anything I can do for you? You look less than content."

"Well, I—" I stopped and thought for a moment, not wanting to get the poor lieutenants caught up in my drama with Tavington. "It's just—I suppose you know that I'm—that Colonel Tavington and I are getting married?"

Lawrence nodded, shifting uncomfortably and grimacing again. "Yes, miss. Congratulations." Bligh nodded mutely in agreement, still looking uncomfortable. "When's the wedding?"

"The day after tomorrow. And that's really why I'm upset. Lieutenant," I said, thinking, "do you have any idea where I could procure something old, something borrowed, and something blue?" For 'new', I was set—I didn't have a wedding gown yet, but I would be wearing my sweatpants underneath it. At least _something_ about my wedding was going to be comfortable, damn it.

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"Halloo!"

Was I dreaming, or did I actually hear Lieutenant Lawrence's voice? I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and saw that the flap of my tent was moving. "Halloo!" came the voice again. "Miss Kat?"

"Um…come in," I called, running my fingers self-consciously through my hair as Lawrence entered the tent. He was positively bouncing with excitement. "Are you all right?" I asked.

"I'm much more than just all right, Miss! And so should you be!" His tone was almost accusatory. "We have wedding plans to attend to!"

I couldn't decide whether to laugh at his enthusiasm or cry because I hadn't yet figured out how to avoid this wedding. In the end, I had no time for either—Lawrence was a man on a mission, and that mission was to secure me a wedding dress. Before I knew it, I was in a carriage en route to Charleston.

"I haven't been to Charles Towne in _ages_, you know." Lawrence, escorting me upon a mournful-looking white horse, had barely stopped talking since we left camp—and that had been over an hour. "Such a lovely town. Have you been there, Miss Kat?"

"Of course I—oh," I said, suddenly remembering where I was. "Um—yes. I came several times with my parents when I was younger." I cast a sidelong glance at the lieutenant, but he hadn't seemed to notice anything.

"Then you know how wonderful it is! The shops there are just _magnificent_, wouldn't you say? And of course you've been to that wonderful butcher near the docks—Leonard, I think his name is? He sells the most _superb_ sausages!"

Lawrence chattered all the way into Charleston, leaving me to do very little more than make noises of assent from time to time. I was thankful for his company, not only because he kept me occupied, but because I would have been utterly lost without him.

Charleston was nothing like the bustling, touristy city I knew so well. It was tiny, teeming with British troops, the streets made of cobblestones instead of pavement. The cars had been replaced with carriages; the smell of horses was overwhelming; and some of the houses that had been carefully restored in my time weren't even built yet. I felt completely wrong-footed, and if I hadn't had Lawrence with me, I had no doubt I would have given up and simply sobbed. But he kept up a steady stream of observations and gossip, and soon he had led me to a small dress shop that pushed all of my negative thoughts away.

Lawrence seemed to know the shopkeeper quite well, which was fortunate for me, as she didn't seem thrilled at the prospect of fitting me for a dress I needed tomorrow. But the lieutenant was insistent, and she finally acquiesced in a manner that made me wonder exactly _how_ they knew each other. I had very little time to ponder this, however: Lawrence soon had the woman forcing me into gown after gown in search of the perfect wedding costume.

The dress I finally selected was a beautiful cream chiffon with a full skirt, a lace bodice, and Lawrence's steadfast approval; I found myself loving it, despite the fact that I would be wearing it the next day when I would be forced into—_marrying_ Tavington.

Neither Lawrence or I spoke much on the ride back to camp; both of us were tired, and I was pensive, not to mention apprehensive. By the time we arrived at the camp, I was exhausted. But I resolved to go straight to sleep, pushing my worry about my impending nuptials firmly away. Not dealing with problems until I absolutely had to, I found, was essential to my mental health at this point.

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My wedding day dawned bright, clear, and hot; I was sweating as I fought my way into the dress that arrived that morning, and my sweatpants were making the whole thing worse, but I refused to sacrifice the "something new." I paid special attention to my hair, piling it atop my head and pinning it with the pins the whore had used the night of my first dinner with Tavington; and, finally, I felt reasonably ready.

When I stepped out of my tent, Bligh and Lawrence were standing there, Bligh looking rather sheepish. "Good morning, Miss Kat!" said Lawrence. "We did as you requested, though it _did_ take us rather a long time!" He handed me a bracelet and, looking slightly sad, unwound the scarf from about his neck and offered that to me as well. "The bracelet was my great-grandmother's, and the scarf is, of course, mine. Old and borrowed."

The bracelet was beautiful, and I put it on immediately. "Thank you so much, Lieutenant," I said, appreciating immensely the fact that he had lent me his scarf, which was clearly his most prized possession. I draped it around my shoulders; red was undoubtedly an odd color for a bride where I came from, but somehow the scarf made me feel better. "Now all I need to do is find something blue."

"We took care of that as well," said Lawrence, and stepped back to allow Bligh to approach. I saw that the other lieutenant was carrying a bunch of bluebells.

"These are blue," said Bligh. He handed them to me.

"They're beautiful!" I cried, smiling at him. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, both of you." It struck me, suddenly, that I would be quite the patriotic bride: oh, the irony.

"Our pleasure," said Lawrence, returning my smile. "Now, if you're ready…" He offered me his arm. I accepted it, and we walked toward the carriage that would take me to the church.

I was running out of options. And I was starting to panic.

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The church was small, but beautiful and clearly new; I couldn't help but be charmed by it. The only people in it besides myself and the lieutenants were General Cornwallis, another officer, and the pastor; my fiancé was nowhere in sight.

"You look beautiful, my dear," said Cornwallis kindly. "Don't fret, the Colonel will be along presently. May I present Captain O'Hara?" He indicated the officer I hadn't recognized. "He has agreed to serve as a witness."

"Pleased to meet you, Captain," I said, giving him a quavering smile.

"Enchanted, Miss," he said, bowing his head. "May I offer my congratulations?"

I merely continued to smile at him. The absurdity of the situation again hit me, but I pushed it away. Perhaps I wouldn't have to be married at all; maybe Tavington had found the idea of marrying me so unpalatable that he wouldn't show up.

Just as I was pondering this happy thought, the church doors flew open, and the Colonel himself walked in. And, as much as I was dreading the wedding, my first thought was that he was, objectively, really good looking. Clad in what was clearly his dress uniform, he had made certain that not a thread was out of place. His newly-polished boots were gleaming; the tight pants showcased the muscles in his legs; the dark green of his waistcoat, properly buttoned this time, contrasted sharply with the bright white of his shirt; and his hair was, as always, pulled back into a smooth queue. But what caught me were his eyes: they were the same perfect blue I had seen before, of course, but they seemed somehow less cold. Tavington had clearly seen me inspecting him and, having done the same to me, met my eye and nodded curtly. He strode up to the front of the church to meet me, positioning himself across from me in front of the pastor.

"_I can't believe this is happening,_" I thought, just as I heard the pastor begin to speak.

"Dearly beloved…"

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	6. White Wedding

Lieutenant Bligh looked around nervously as the pastor began to read the wedding ceremony. The Colonel looked decidedly less than happy; Bligh wondered, for the hundredth time, how precisely the scene in front of him had come to take place. Even direct orders from General Lord Cornwallis would not have been enough to force Tavington into marriage had the Colonel not had some inclination toward it himself. Miss Kat was indeed attractive, but it certainly wasn't that that made Tavington consent to marry her. Perhaps he hoped to learn more about her mysterious background—or maybe he simply felt that denying the General yet again was not a wise plan at this juncture.

Bligh looked over at Miss Kat and saw that her eyes seemed to be filled with tears. Apparently she wasn't any more thrilled at this marriage than was her fiancé. But it wasn't any of his business—or it wouldn't be unless the Colonel chose to take out his frustration on his lieutenants. Bligh sighed, straightened up, and focused his gaze straight ahead.

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I very nearly had a panic attack in the middle of my own wedding. Somehow, in my determination to put off the reality of my plight for as long as possible, I had failed to consider what a wedding implied: there would, of course, be a wedding night following the ceremony. And, while I had managed to convince myself to accept that Tavington and I would be married, I had never gotten to the point where I thought about what would happen then. It was all I could do not to burst into tears at the thought; no matter how physically attractive I found Tavington, there was no way I was going to submit to my expected "wifely" duties with a man whose personality I found utterly revolting.

As I stood, clutching the bluebells Bligh had given me and only barely registering what the pastor was saying, I twisted the ring on the fourth finger of my right hand, a sort of nervous tic I had when I was thinking. And that brought an entirely new dimension into my already confused thoughts: Paris. He had given me the ring on our second anniversary—a promise ring, he'd said, until we exchanged it for an engagement ring. But now, having skipped the engagement ring entirely, I was about to acquire a wedding ring—and not from Paris. I hadn't wanted to be married at all, and now—

I looked up then, and my eyes met Tavington's. His expression was unreadable, but I knew I would get no sympathy from him, and I absolutely refused to let him see me cry. The thought alone of how he could torment me if he knew he was capable of evoking tears from me helped me to gather myself. I looked over to Tavington's right and, seeing the General regarding me with concern, I gave him the merest hint of a smile before focusing my attention back on my bluebells.

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General Cornwallis smiled to himself when he saw Kat turn her eyes demurely back down to the flowers she held. She had been near tears, he thought—undoubtedly brimming with happiness at the thought of marrying Tavington. Women always were silly and emotional at weddings; it was ever so endearing. And the Colonel—well, the Colonel looked as he always did, rather displeased. But Cornwallis knew better; Tavington was clearly trying to hide the extent of his love from his soon-to-be wife, fearing to show any sort of weakening emotion. Ah, well, all would soon be right. In all, Cornwallis felt, he was to be congratulated on his matchmaking skills. He smiled to himself again and ate a lemon drop.

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Next to Bligh, Lieutenant Lawrence was admiring the effect of his scarf, draped artfully around Miss Kat's neck. It really was a magnificent scarf; he only hoped it gave her some comfort. Clearly, she wasn't any happier about marrying the Colonel than Tavington seemed to be at the prospect of marrying a colonist. But they were undoubtedly a very attractive couple, and he wished them well—particularly because if the Colonel was happy, it meant his lieutenants were more likely to be happy. Or, at least, not in physical pain.

At any rate, the wedding seemed to be moving along without incident. The pastor had very nearly reached the vows now, Lawrence noticed. Oh, he _did_ love a good wedding!

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'_And now,'_ thought Tavington, _'we come to the point.'_ He wondered if Kat's—_sensibilities_—would prevent her in the end from making her wedding vows. She very obviously had no fondness for him, and she seemed—not the romantic type, but certainly not one to accept a situation of which she didn't approve. And, just as obviously, she didn't approve of being married to him. This was hardly surprising. He had given her no reason to like him, and he still didn't trust her. Yes, this was a proper marriage: dislike and distrust all 'round.

He couldn't help but notice, however, that she looked very pretty this morning. Well, even if she was beneath him in her status as a colonist, at least she was attractive enough to be his wife. Earlier during the ceremony, she had met his gaze, and her eyes were full of an emotion he couldn't quite define: a combination of sadness and resolve, he thought. Perhaps she would go through with it after all.

Abruptly, he realized that the pastor was now reading the vows. "…in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," said Tavington, doing his best not to allow his voice to betray any of his grave misgivings as to the promise he had just undertaken. He focused his attention on the girl as the pastor turned to her.

"Do you, Katerinalila Fitzpatrick"—_'Fitzpatrick?!'_ thought Tavington disgustedly. _'Why did I never think to ask Cornwallis what her surname was? As though it wasn't bad enough to marry me off to a colonist, she _would_ have to be Irish as well.'_ He lapsed into dismayed musings on the lamentable parentage of his…wife.

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"…as long as you both shall live?" The parson peered uncertainly at me as he posed the question, almost as though he expected me not to answer in the affirmative.

I steeled up my nerve and lifted my head, staring straight into Tavington's cool, beautiful (where did _that_ come from?!) eyes. "I do."

The pastor seized my hand and offered it to Tavington. His right hand closed over my left, and before I knew it he had slipped a ring onto my finger. I felt as though I were watching a movie as we processed out of the church; I could see myself, scared-looking and shaking slightly, on the arm of Tavington, who looked as collected as ever. O'Hara and Cornwallis came next, both looking rather aloof and pleased. And finally came Bligh and Lawrence, one devoid of expression, the other smiling happily to himself. Not, it must be said, precisely what I pictured my wedding procession to be.

I looked down at my right hand, still clutching the bluebells, and saw the glint of the promise ring in the afternoon sun. And then I looked to my left, at the hand attached to Tavington's arm, and saw a completely unfamiliar gleam. The ring he had given me was absolutely beautiful; I saw, as I observed it properly, the intricate engraving on the silver band that held a single, imperfect but sparkling diamond. It looked wonderfully antique, even for the time I was in; I wondered where in the world Tavington had gotten it.

These pleasant considerations were cut short when I realized precisely what was happening: I was married to Colonel Tavington, and now I had to figure out what the hell to do about it. The men around me were talking—perhaps even to me—but I ignored them, still lost in my thoughts. Abruptly, I realized that I was being bundled back into the carriage in which I had been taken to the church—though, mercifully, Tavington appeared to have chosen the company of his horse over mine. But we weren't going back toward the camp; we had taken a different path, and soon we were traveling down a long avenue lined with oak trees toward a sprawling plantation home. When the carriage halted, I gathered my thoughts, took a steadying deep breath, and allowed myself to be assisted out by Lieutenant Bligh. He gave me a small smile as he escorted me over to the group of officers. General Cornwallis smiled at me as well; Tavington only stared at me, face unreadable as always.

"Well, my dear Mrs. Tavington, allow me to offer my congratulations!" said Cornwallis jovially. I nearly gagged at the use of my new name, but managed a weak smile. "I've arranged a small wedding supper for us here, and then—this is to be your home forthwith. Wouldn't want to spend your wedding night in a tent, now, would you?" he said, winking at Tavington. The latter was clearly not amused.

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As we were finishing dessert, I glanced around at each of my companions, all of whom had been consuming wine at an alarming rate during our meal. It wasn't normal wedding champagne toasting, either; Tavington, at least, seemed almost as uncomfortable as I did, and was drinking accordingly. O'Hara had gone back to camp; but Cornwallis was red-faced and had adopted his most cheery of moods, laughing uproariously at the horrible Prussian jokes Lawrence was telling. Lawrence himself, scarf restored, seemed happier than ever—apparently weddings agreed with him. Even Bligh was smiling alarmingly often, though he was still rather taciturn as he sipped wine from an absurdly small glass. Only the Colonel and I weren't participating in the conversation. I decided to interrupt Lawrence's third attempt at explaining the difference between a Prussian and a camel.

"General Cornwallis," I said. "Whose house is this?"

The General mopped his brow. "Well, my dear Mrs. Tavington"—he was taking every available opportunity to use my new name—"we only recently relieved it from the unpleasant ownership of a rather troublesome rebel. A well-known one, too, by all accounts. I believe he's a member of that demmed Continental Congress."

The history lover in me perked up immediately. If I could meet one of the Founding Fathers—"Really? What's his name?" I said, trying my best to sound disinterested.

"Rutledge, I believe. Yes, Edward Rutledge," said the General. "Demmed fop of a man." I noticed Lawrence perk up slightly at this. Meanwhile, Tavington was eyeing me with suspicion, again. I would really have to stop doing this. "You don't know him, Mrs. Tavington?"

"No," I said quickly. "I've heard the name, but only in passing." And watched the man dance, clad in absurdly tight pants, and sing about triangular trade—_1776_ had long been one of my favorite movies, and now I was in the real man's house.

"Well," said the General, pushing back his chair, "as delightful as this has been, I do believe it's getting a bit late." He made a show of pulling out his pocket-watch to check the time. I looked nervously over at Tavington, who was rolling his eyes. Somehow, that made me feel marginally better. "We'd best be off, eh, Lieutenants? Don't want to…intrude…." And, tipping Tavington a large wink, he stood. Bligh, sighing, followed suit; and Lawrence stood as well.

"Goodnight, my dear Colonel and Mrs. Tavington!" said Cornwallis, tittering. "Pleasant dreams!" He wriggled his fingers at us and walked out the front door, followed by Bligh. Lawrence grinned happily at us before leaving, his grin tempered only slightly by the look of unadulterated hatred on Tavington's face. I could swear I heard him clap as he nearly skipped out of the house.

And then—I was alone. With Tavington. My husband. Not knowing what else to say, I let out the only thing that came to mind. "_Shit_."

One of Tavington's eyebrows went up. "Pardon me?"

"Oh—nothing. I was just wondering—where are you from?"

Tavington let my expletive slide, apparently deciding that a truce was in order. "Liverpool, England."

"Oh," I said. "Is it—nice there?"

"Delightful," said Tavington. Silence fell between us. I searched for another topic of conversation.

"Do you…um…still have family there?"

"None that I care to converse about," he said. He downed the rest of his wine and stood up. "The General was, surprisingly, correct about the lateness of the hour. Perhaps we should—"

"No, no, that's quite all right," I said quickly. "I'm not tired at all. Please don't feel any need to rush on my account."

Tavington sat back down, looking rather awkward.

"Um…oh, where did you get this ring?" I said, holding out my left hand to admire the ring again. "It's beautiful. Is it a family heirloom?"

Tavington scowled. "I think not. No," he said, a smirk appearing on his lips, "I—_acquired_ it from a colonist who no longer had need of it."

Oh, dear Lord. Was I wearing the ring of a dead patriot? No, I would _not_ allow Tavington to get to me. "Hmm. Well, it's lovely anyway." I gave him my brightest smile, which clearly unnerved him. But he recovered quickly, and, eyes gleaming, smiled back at me.

Normally, I would not be completely cowed by a smile; but, when the person bestowing it was Colonel William Tavington, several factors had to be considered. First, I had never seen him smile before; second, his eyes were absolutely mesmerizing, without the scorn that I usually saw in them, but somehow very dangerous. And third, as I realized when he stood up purposefully, transfixing me with his icy blue gaze, the man was completely delicious.

'_Jessica Katerinalila Fitzpatrick…Tavington!'_ I chastised myself immediately. _'You are _not_ going to think about Tavington in those terms. Remember that he's at best mean and at worst evil, and that you have to get through this and back to Paris.'_ I wasn't sure what had come over me. But I knew I could delay the inevitable no longer—it was time for action.

I stood up and walked down the hall and up the stairs to the room that Cornwallis had indicated was to be our wedding suite, Tavington following behind me. I stopped outside the door and turned to face him, causing him to pause a few feet away from me. "Well," I said brightly.

He said nothing, merely turned his attention to the buttons on his waistcoat. As ever, they seemed to be giving him trouble, and he cursed under his breath, attention fully absorbed in the task at hand.

"Well," I said again, "good night!" And with that, I raced into the room, slammed the door, and turned the key in the lock. Immediately, I heard behind me an expletive much less muffled than the previous one had been, and Tavington banged on the door.

"Open the door!" he growled.

"No, thank you, I don't think I will," I said sweetly. "I'm really very tired, Colonel. It came on quite suddenly. I think I'll go to bed now."

He cursed again and pounded several times on the door, apparently trying to break it down; but that door was solid, and it wasn't going anywhere.

"Katerinalila!" Tavington yelled through the door. I ignored him, smiling contentedly to myself as I shed my wedding dress and crawled into bed, happily clad in my sweatpants.

"Good night, Colonel!" I called again. "See you in the morning!"

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Outside, Bligh and Lawrence were stationed at the front door, under the General's strictest orders not to allow any disturbance to the nuptial bliss inside the house. Bligh leaned wearily against the side of the house, while Lawrence wandered merrily back and forth, humming to himself. Suddenly, Bligh stood upright.

"Lawrence! Did you hear that, eh?" he said, nodding toward the house.

"Sounded rather like furniture being rearranged," said Lawrence thoughtfully.

"It did," said Bligh. "Hmm."

Just then, their ponderings were interrupted by a loud cry of "Katerinalila!". Bligh felt rather uncomfortable, and decided on a course of action he never employed. "Say, Lawrence, why don't you tell me more about your adventures at Eton," he said, leaning back against the house.

"Why, certainly! I thought you'd never ask!" said Lawrence happily, and launched into a tale.

Bligh sighed. It was going to be a long night.

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Colonel Tavington paced around the guest room he had been forced to adopt, looking about for something on which to take out his rage. Katerinalila had not opened the door—though how he could have fallen for her trick, he still didn't know—and he had been obliged, eventually, to cease his pounding and yelling. How was he possibly _married_ to that girl?

He sat on the edge of the bed, fuming. Removing his pistol from its holster, he set to polishing vigorously.

It was going to be a long night.

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	7. Everything's Quiet In the Clique

I woke up in the morning feeling refreshed and, actually, quite happy. It was amazing the difference sleeping on an actual bed in a house made. I was also very pleased with myself at outwitting Tavington the night before. There was, of course, the problem that he wasn't likely to fall for the same trick again tonight; but I'd think of something during the course of the day. And there was also the possibility that he'd attack me violently over breakfast, but we could hope it wouldn't come to that. I started humming "Love Generation" as I wandered around the suite. Ooh, a closet to explore!

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Bligh leapt to his feet, hand on his sword, and looked around wildly, any trace of sleepiness gone. Colonel Tavington had just thrown open the front door and marched out onto the veranda, and was now looking at him with a dangerous glint in his eyes. Bligh spluttered something unintelligible and stood at attention; the Colonel merely grunted ominously and turned his attention to Lawrence. Who, unfortunately for him, had not noticed Tavington's abrupt appearance and was still asleep, curled up on the porch, hands protectively clutching his scarf. Tavington's eyes gleamed perilously as he strode over to his unlucky underling.

It was not the most pleasant wake-up Lawrence had ever experienced.

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My venture into Rutledge's closet was quite fruitful, in more ways than one. The man appeared, just as Cornwallis had indicated, to be something of a dandy; I emerged with yards of fabric in varying colors and patterns, several of them adorned with cherries, pears and the like, as well as some lovely lace. This would be wonderful to make clothes with, and further rummaging in drawers found me needles and thread, as well as a pair of knitting needles and some yarn. I did feel a bit odd relieving a founding father of his possessions, but as he wasn't here, I doubted he'd mind.

I piled my new acquisitions neatly on a table and, after a brief session grooming myself in front of the mirror—_man_, could I use a comb!—I struggled back into the blue dress the whores had given me my first night in the camp and wandered down the stairs. When I reached the dining room, I found Cornwallis, but there was no sign of Tavington.

"Good morning, Mrs. Tavington!" he said, beaming at me. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Ignoring the vague sense of indecency with which he delivered the question, I smiled politely and said, "I'm fine, thank you, General."

"You slept well last night, I trust?"

"Very well," I said. I really did not want this conversation to go any further at present, so I decided to steer it in another direction. "Do you know where the Colonel is?" Best to keep tabs on his whereabouts; I doubted the next encounter we had would be a pleasant one, and I wanted to be on my guard.

The General's smile intensified. "He's out for a ride, my dear. Very impressive, if you ask me; I would have thought he'd be worn out."

I blushed, much to my embarrassment. "Um…How long ago did he leave?"

"I'm not sure, my dear, I only just arrived myself. I'll be staying here in the house with you now; I find that the plantation is much more to my liking than is a camp!" He smiled happily and took a sip of tea. "If you're truly intent on finding your beloved, Mrs. Tavington, I suggest you ask the lieutenants. I believe they encountered him this morning."

I gave Cornwallis a strained smile, deciding to ignore the fact that he had just implied that I was in love with Tavington. Had the poor man really deluded himself that much? Oh, well, it was probably best to let him continue doing so. That way at least _someone_ would be happy about this marriage. I walked out of the dining room and onto the veranda.

Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence seemed rather jumpy this morning. They both leapt in the air when they heard the door opening, looking pained; I couldn't help laughing. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you! Good grief," I said, "you look like you're expecting someone to attack."

The lieutenants exchanged an uneasy glance. "Not to worry, ma'am," said Lawrence, "we're here to protect you. You needn't worry about anyone attacking." Bligh swallowed hard and nodded in agreement.

I wondered for a moment if perhaps they were nervous because there _was_ a rumor of a planned attack, but dismissed that idea quickly—surely there would be more protection for the General than a pair of hapless lieutenants if that were the case. "Do you know where the Colonel is? General Cornwallis said you'd seen him earlier."

Was it my imagination, or did Lawrence's pained look intensify at the mention of Tavington? "No, ma'am, he's out for a ride, but he should be back soon. He left quite some time ago." He rubbed his neck surreptitiously; I wondered where his scarf was, but elected not to pry.

"Well, will you be so kind as to fetch me when he returns?" I said. It was best, I felt, to have my first meeting with Tavington surrounded by as many people as possible.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Bligh said, shielding his eyes against the morning sunshine with a not-inconsiderable hand and gesturing with the other. "I believe that's the Colonel now."

And indeed it was. I couldn't help but feel a bit nervous, but at least the lieutenants were there to shield me from his wrath. Though they looked almost as nervous as I felt, now that I thought about it. My anxiety dissipated as I watched Tavington approach, to be replaced—again—by an appreciation of how attractive he was. He was clearly an accomplished horseman; his posture was tall and straight, and the uniform highlighted his muscular physique. I shook my head to clear it; I _had_ to stop seeing Tavington like that. Particularly when he looked as dangerous as he did at present.

He dismounted gracefully and strode toward us. I steeled up my nerve. "Good morning, Colonel."

He ignored me. "Lieutenants!" he snarled. They snapped to attention. "Tell my—_wife_—that, should she need me, I shall be…in _our_ chambers. And Bligh—tell the serving boy to draw me some hot water for a bath." And with that, he stalked past us, throwing Lawrence's scarf at him as he did so, and into the house.

The lieutenants looked nervously at each other, and then at me. I wasn't sure what to think; that certainly had not been the reaction I'd been expecting. Though I was perfectly capable of playing along if he was planning to give me the silent treatment. "Well, Lieutenants," I said brightly. "If you'll pardon me, I believe I'll have a look around this lovely house." And I followed in Tavington's wake, pondering what tonight would bring.

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After Miss Kat had gone inside, Bligh and Lawrence exchanged another glance. "I don't think things are going too well, eh?" said Bligh sagely.

Lawrence shook his head morosely, wrapping the scarf about his neck once more. "I'd say not. What d'you reckon went wrong?"

Bligh shrugged mutely, running a large hand through his hair.

Suddenly, Lawrence perked up. "I say! We should help them along!"

Bligh looked warily at his friend. "And how do you propose we do that?"

"Well," Lawrence said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "whenever I'm a-wooing, I find it expedient to show the lady my romantic side."

"Yes, but how?"

"Just let me go have a word with the General, my dear fellow. I shall need your help in a bit." And with that, Lawrence practically skipped away, throwing one end of the scarf rakishly over his shoulder.

Bligh sighed. He did _not_ like the sound of this. And, he realized abruptly, he had forgotten to call for the bathwater. Cursing under his breath, he went to go fetch it himself.

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I disregarded the parlor on my quest; though pretty and awash with morning sun, it was unlikely to yield anything interesting as to the character of Edward Rutledge, about whom I was avidly curious. I wandered past the dining room and into the room across the hall, which I took to be a study of sorts. Opening the door, I peered in and found a cramped space packed full of disorderly bookshelves and a desk, its surface curiously well-ordered amidst the mess. Settling down at the desk, I looked at the papers piled neatly atop it; they appeared to be bland personal correspondence between Rutledge and other statesmen, primarily about South Carolina's governance. However, after a bit of snooping, I found some more interesting documents buried amidst the piles: a letter from John Dickinson of Pennsylvania, and one from—_Thomas Jefferson_?! It didn't say much, mostly outlined plans Jefferson had for his estate at Monticello, but it brought forcibly to my attention the fact that Thomas Jefferson was currently very much alive. He had always been one of my heroes, and I couldn't believe I was now actively a part of history that involved him.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to continue my search. I wasn't sure precisely what I was looking for, but something compelled me to open the desk drawers. They were, of course, locked. I bit my lip, thinking; how could I open them? I didn't imagine Rutledge had left the key lying about anywhere that would be easy to find, as that would defeat the purpose. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had pins in my hair—I'd never actually picked a lock, but it couldn't be that hard, could it?

Apparently, it could. It took me the better part of fifteen minutes to get the first drawer open, and I was petrified the whole time that someone would come in and catch me breaking into Rutledge's desk. But, once I finally opened the drawer, my labors were rewarded: a sheaf of papers, more correspondence, but this of a more interesting nature, mostly relating to the rebellion. As I rifled through it, I spotted a document that looked somehow familiar. Pulling it out, I looked closely at it. It was a copy of the Declaration of Independence.

I sat, stunned, looking at the Declaration. I had to preserve it somehow; but there was no way I could take it upstairs with me. Looking around wildly, I pulled out a large book on the shelf—a tome called _Fruits and Flowers of South Carolina_, which I doubted anyone would be examining anytime soon—and carefully placed the Declaration in its pages, vowing to come back to rescue it someday soon.

I had spent entirely too long in the library. I grabbed a book at random off the shelf—oh, good, Shakespeare—in case anyone saw me on the way out. Heart pounding, I stole out of the room, shutting the door behind me, and made my way upstairs, leaving the rest of the first floor unexplored. The door to my suite was closed—Tavington must still be bathing (I banished any further speculation on this concept from my mind immediately)—so I wandered down the landing. The next few rooms were just bedrooms, but at the end of the hall I found a smaller sitting room. The sun, higher in the sky now, was still lighting up the room beautifully, and I sat down in a chair next to the window and gazed out. The room was at the front of the house and looked over the wide tree-lined avenue we had ridden down yesterday; from here, I had a clear view of the fields and woods around the house. This would be my sewing room—I wished I had the fabric I'd found in the closet this morning so I could start now. At least I had the Shakespeare from the library. I opened the book and settled into _Macbeth_.

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"Bligh!" came a loud whisper from behind him. Bligh whirled around to find Lawrence, looking rather secretive and quite delighted.

"What are you on about?" replied Bligh testily. He disliked being surprised.

Lawrence smiled enigmatically. "Just had a chat with General Cornwallis. He said we're free to do whatever's necessary to help the Colonel and Miss Kat along—thought it was brilliant, actually. Said he wished he were that clever." Lawrence puffed up his chest and adjusted his scarf proudly.

Bligh frowned. Whatever plan had Lawrence this happy did not bode well for him. "Well, what are we doing?"

Lawrence clapped him on the shoulder. "Follow me, old chap. We have our work cut out for us."

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Tavington adjusted his waistcoat and frowned at himself in the looking-glass. He had just gotten properly clean and had, to some extent, gotten rid of the residual anger along with the grime of this morning's ride; and now, the moment his uniform was back on, he was sweating again. This weather was despicable.

He turned away from the looking glass with a frown and began to pull on his boots. As he buttoned up his pants, he thought again about his wife—but about _her_, this time, rather than her maddening behavior of the previous evening. She had never provided him with any clear indication as to where she came from, who her family were, what she believed; and, while her evasive answers were enough to satisfy Cornwallis, he remained uneasy. She had to be hiding something. No matter how believable it was when her eyes filled with emotion at any mention of her parents—Tavington cursed himself for harboring sympathy for her then—she was still a completely unknown entity. And that made her potentially very dangerous.

He flung open the door to the bedroom and marched down the stairs and out the front door, striding quickly to where his horse was tethered. Mounting easily, he set out at a trot to camp; he had work to do, if no one else did. Bligh and Lawrence might be ineffectual yobs, but _he_ was a consummate soldier; and he had a regiment to inspect, business with the armory to conduct, and an intelligence report from the cavalry to receive. And, after that was completed—he would begin asking around, discretely, for any information anyone had to offer on Katerinalila Fitzpatrick…Tavington.

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	8. What Is Love?

When I woke up, the sun was setting, and my sitting room was nearly dark—I had evidently fallen asleep while reading. I closed the book still sitting on my lap and laid it on the chair behind me as I stood and stretched. I rubbed my eyes, attempting to get rid of that disorienting feeling that comes from waking up when it's nearly dark out. As I made my way out onto the landing, my stomach growled just as I smelled something delicious wafting up the stairs. I was thrilled at the concept of food, even if it meant seeing Tavington again. And at least there would be other people present with whom I could actually converse—the General, if no one else, would make the environment at least marginally comfortable.

When I reached the dining room, however, I found only the Colonel. He stared at me with an expression that seemed almost calculating for a moment, then assumed his usual manner of superior dislike. "Well? Where is everyone else?"

"I have no idea," I replied just as testily. "I've been asleep."

He looked mildly disgusted at this. "I was told that General Cornwallis would be joining us."

"Like I said, I have no idea where he is," I said. "But it's nice to know you're talking to me again."

Tavington narrowed his glacial eyes at me. "Forgive me, madam, if I was less than pleased this morning. No doubt I should have courted your good favor and pretended that the trick you played on me last night was neither demeaning nor embarrassing."

I had embarrassed Tavington? Somehow, the world suddenly seemed marginally brighter. Though, I suddenly realized, it was unusually dim in the dining room. Whoever had prepared the meal hadn't bothered to light the candles in the chandelier overhead; the table was lit only by a pair of candles in elaborate silver candlesticks. Forgetting my momentary victory, I looked around the table. "There are only two places set, Colonel. Maybe the General isn't coming to dinner after all."

Tavington's frown deepened. He reached out and helped himself to some oysters from where they were piled on a serving dish and began eating almost ominously.

I could hold out against the silent treatment, but really, this was ridiculous. "Listen, Colonel. This wasn't my choice either; but it appears that someone has seen fit to prepare us a romantic candlelit dinner, whether we like it or not. We should make the most of it."

"I am," he responded, taking another bite of oyster and helping himself to some asparagus.

I rolled my eyes and began to eat. If he wasn't willing to converse, I wasn't going to break my back trying.

Abruptly, Tavington paused the mechanical movement of fork from plate to mouth and turned his attention to me. He seemed to be contemplating me, rather than merely glaring, and I stared evenly back at him. After considering me for a moment longer, he said, "Tell me more about your family."

Whatever I had expected him to say, that wasn't it. I steeled my nerves and forced myself to think about my parents. "I lived with my parents on a farm. I was their only child, and we were very close. Especially my father…he…" But I was suddenly overwhelmed by emotion, and as always when I thought about the people I had left behind, my eyes filled with tears. I remembered my resolve the day before not to allow Tavington to see me cry, but it was harder now than ever. I seized a napkin and wiped my eyes. Steeling my courage, I looked back at Tavington—and was astonished to see that his eyes were full of sympathy. I resisted the urge to cry harder and straightened up, banishing all thoughts of my parents.

"I am sorry for your loss," he said, somewhat stiffly, but I could tell he meant it.

"Thank you," I said; and with that, a truce seemed to have been declared. We ate in silence, until Tavington noticed a small book lying open next to a succulent chocolate mousse on the tray the serving boy had brought in. His brow furrowed as he picked it up, and suddenly the distrust was back in his eyes as he looked at me.

"Are you responsible for _this_?" he asked, brandishing the book—and with that, it seemed, our truce was over.

"No," I said, trying to conceal my annoyance at his quickness to blame me. "What does it say?"

His eyebrows lowered menacingly as he ran his eyes down the page. "_Poetry_," he spat, and thrust the book at me.

I liked poetry, and I was not about to allow this man to ruin my enjoyment of it. "Kit Marlowe!"

I exclaimed happily, and began to read.

"_It lies not in our power to love or hate,_

_For will in us is overruled by fate._

_When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,_

_We wish that one should love, the other win;_

_And one especially do we affect_

_Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:_

_The reason no man knows; let it suffice_

_What we behold is censured by our eyes._

_Where both deliberate, the love is slight:_

_Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?_"

I began reading aloud primarily to see Tavington's reaction, and I kept reading because it was damn amusing. His eyebrows lowered more than I thought possible; his eyes were icy blue slits; and his mouth was a thin line by the time I finished. I smiled happily and handed it back to him. He flipped open the cover and pronounced one word, filled with venom: "_Lawrence_." He threw the book back down onto the table and bounded out of the room.

Intrigued, I opened the cover and saw for myself: a personal inscription in what appeared to be Greek, signed _Androclus_. Interesting. I wasn't sure how that pointed back to Lieutenant Lawrence, but I certainly wouldn't want to be him right now.

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Lieutenants Lawrence and Bligh sat on a log next to a fire in the campsite, passing the flask of rum back and forth between them. It had been a long day, what with the lack of sleep the previous night and the dinner preparations; and though Lawrence was currently speculating happily about the indubitable success of his plan, Bligh was decidedly uneasy.

"Right," said Lawrence, ceasing for a moment his discussion of the perfection of their dinner preparations. "A Prussian whore walks into a pub—"

Lawrence paused in his delivery of the joke, noting that his companion had just leapt to his feet. Turning about, he saw Colonel Tavington, who had dismounted from his horse and was striding toward them with murderous intent on his face. Feeling that it was best to remain silent, Lawrence did just that as he, too, stood at attention.

"Lieutenant Lawrence," breathed the Colonel, halting mere inches from Lawrence's face, hand on his sword. "Tell me _precisely_ what went through your mind this afternoon when you decided to interfere in my personal life."

"Uh—sir—I—" stammered Lawrence, not entirely sure what he could say that would prevent his immediate disembowelment. "General Lord Cornwallis—"

"I very much doubt," interrupted Tavington, still speaking dangerously quietly and still in complete invasion of Lawrence's personal space, "whether General Lord Cornwallis would have thought it necessary to…_assist_…in my romantic endeavors had you not suggested it to him." Lawrence grinned sheepishly, mentally cursing Bligh for edging away from the Colonel. Traitorous bastard. "I also very much doubt that the General took the trouble to procure oysters and asparagus for dinner this evening. Nor does the General, I think, have a correspondent who signs himself 'Androclus'."

'_Damn,'_ thought Lawrence. _'Should have thought of that.'_

"And you," said Tavington, addressing himself now to Bligh, who had not quite managed to escape. "I would have thought you had better judgment than to engage in a scheme like this; but clearly Lawrence has you more under his sway than I had assumed."

He smiled dangerously at his lieutenants, both of whom were attempting not to cower visibly. "You will both have Peccavi Patrol on the morrow, dawn until noon; and I trust, Lieutenant Lawrence, with your classical training, you will not need my assistance in translation. You will be back for afternoon formation." He turned on his heel, remounted his horse, and was off into the darkness, leaving his two lieutenants aghast behind him.

"So…" said Lawrence, clearly attempting to cheer himself up again. "A Prussian whore walks into a pub—"

"Oh, shove it, you three-penny upright," said Bligh disgustedly, and strode off to bed.

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I was just drifting off to sleep in the comfort of the four-poster bed when I heard the front door open. Panicked, I sat upright. The General had returned shortly after our disastrous dinner had come to an end, and I knew there was a patrol stationed outside the house. But my flustered mind automatically assumed the worst, and when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, terror overcame me. I froze, petrified, as my door was thrown open and Tavington burst in, shutting the door behind him.

I nearly started crying, though whether it was with relief or confirmation of my fears, I couldn't say. How had I forgotten to lock the door? His face was hidden in shadow as he strode toward me, but when he stopped next to the bed, I could see his eyes shining in the pale moonlight that grazed the curtains. Instinctively, I grasped the blankets closer around myself, though of course that wouldn't be of any practical use.

"Please don't fear, madam, that I've come here tonight to claim my rights as a husband," he said, and though I could make out the shadow of a sneer on his face, there was no accompanying sardonic tone in his voice. "Whatever my reputation may lead you to believe, I am not one to force myself on an unwilling woman."

I didn't say anything, but I did relax my grip on the blankets slightly. Though I still didn't know him well enough to trust him completely, I believed that he was telling the truth now.

"I assume that you have noticed in the few days of our acquaintance that I have been…less than willing to trust you." I nodded mutely. "However, we are married now—'for better or for worse,' as the saying goes—and I must impress upon you that whatever your convictions may have been, wherever your loyalties may have lain prior to our marriage, I expect you now to live the life of a loyalist and a wife of a soldier of His Majesty, honestly and completely."

"I understand," I said. I understood, also, that this was his attempt to offer me a clean slate; and if it meant that the subtle digs at me and the efforts to catch me in a lie would cease, I was willing to accept his terms.

"And you accept? No arguments?" He seemed to believe that I was incapable of acquiescing without a fight.

"No arguments," I said.

"Then I must ask you—where _did_ your loyalties lie? Were your parents rebels?" He was regarding me intently now, but without the intense suspicion that had always accompanied his questioning.

"Well…" How best to answer this, without ruining any foundation of trust we had just created? "Not as such. They believed in the right of every person to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; and they also believed that that right was better fulfilled within a democracy than under the rule of a monarch. But I can honestly say that they never gave a thought to rebelling violently against the King. And neither have I." That much, at least, was the absolute truth.

His posture relaxed a bit when I said that. I never was a good liar, and I think he knew I was telling the truth. "I am relieved to hear it. Now…" he said, somewhat hesitantly. "If I may be so bold, convention requires that I spend the night in this room."

"But I thought—" I protested, suddenly nervous again.

"I am a man of my word, madam," he said, somewhat testily. "I merely meant to ask if you'd be so kind as to lend me a pillow and perhaps a blanket." He indicated the floor.

"Oh—of course," I said, confused, and handed him the requested items. He set them down on the floor next to the bed and set about removing his boots and the troublesome waistcoat. Fortunately, he didn't remove any more clothing than that; and even more fortunately, he didn't notice that I was watching, or how tense I was when he lay down on the floor.

"Good night, Colonel," I said.

"Good night," he replied.

I sighed heavily. How the hell was I supposed to sleep with Tavington not five feet from me?

It was going to be a long night.

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**AN: The poem that so enrages Tavington is "Who Ever Loved That Loved Not at First Sight?" by Christopher Marlowe. "Peccavi" is a Latin-derived bit of 18****th****-century slang meaning "to acknowledge oneself in an error." **


	9. School of the Hard Knocks

Bligh grumbled to himself as his horse picked its way through the mud of the swamp. Peccavi Patrol indeed—only _he_ hadn't done anything, just followed Lawrence's lead. Though, of course, that was worthy of punishment in itself. Rubbing his eyes, he squinted through the haze that permeated the swamp. This patrol was the worst punishment conceivable: not only did it mean waking up before dawn, but it was also a full day of swatting away mosquitoes, sweating profusely in the swamp's intense humidity, and getting so muddy Bligh felt he'd never be clean again. And the horses kept getting stuck, to boot. The worst part was that this swamp was always devoid of any sign of the rebels, rendering the patrol pointless. Bligh felt, self-righteously, that his manifold talents were being squandered.

Over to his left, even Lawrence had lost his usual optimistic outlook on life. Yawning profusely, he squinted through the trees, his vision obscured by the morning sun. He guessed it was about nine in the morning now, and though it was already unbearably hot, he knew it would only get worse. Sighing, he removed his scarf and tied it securely about the gleaming white neck of his horse. Patting the horse's neck, he murmured, "Sorry about this, Daniel, old boy."

Hearing him, Bligh shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but refrained from commenting. Actually, he wasn't talking to Lawrence at all at the moment; rehashed Prussian jokes were probably the only thing that could make this experience any worse. Bligh urged his horse further to the right, to a semi-dry patch of marshy land, and dismounted. Looking around, he thought he heard something moving through the trees in front of him. He sighed. There was no choice but to alert Lawrence; on the off-chance there _was_ something coming, he'd need back-up. He whistled softly and motioned Lawrence over. The other lieutenant made his way over and dismounted.

"I say, do you see something over there?" Lawrence indicated a shadow that seemed to be moving toward them through the mist.

"Yes," said Bligh testily. "That's why I called you over. I think someone's coming." He pulled out his pistol and poured powder into the barrel. Lawrence did likewise, still squinting through the haze.

Suddenly, there came the sound of several guns cocking from behind them. The lieutenants whirled around to find four guns trained on them. _Rebels_. One man stepped forward slightly, smiling nastily, pistol pointing at Bligh. "Well, well," he smirked. "A pair of Fat George's lieutenants, in my swamp? This doesn't look very good for you, fellows."

Lawrence fixed the man with what he clearly believed was a winning smile and emitted a nervous laugh. Bligh merely straightened up, a surly expression on his face, and lowered his pistol. If they got out of this alive, he would strangle Lawrence with his own scarf.

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Sleeping in the same room as Tavington had indeed been trying on my nerves, and I tossed and turned for what felt like several hours before I finally fell asleep. The rings, one on each of my hands, seemed somehow to be weighing me down: the one on my left binding me irrevocably to Tavington, the one on my right reminding me continually of the promise I had made to Paris. All of my reservations about Tavington as a person aside, I owed it to Paris to push any thoughts of attraction I had to the Colonel out of my head. I still loved Paris, and I always would; but I still had no plan as to how I was going to find my way back to him. And try as I might to fight it, that fascination I had felt the first time I had met Tavington was still very much present.

The sun was showing signs of wanting to rise by the time I finally fell asleep, and it was high in the sky when I woke up. I made my way downstairs to find the house, unsurprisingly, empty; I made an attempt to chat with the sentries at the front door, but they were nowhere as friendly as Bligh and Lawrence. I realized, abruptly, that I considered the lieutenants my friends—they were the only ones I had here, really, unless you counted General Cornwallis. I adored the General, but at the moment, he was incapable of talking to me about anything other than my married life. Sighing, I resigned myself to spending the day alone and wandered upstairs to where I'd left my sewing materials. I brought them into my new sitting room and set about trying to figure out how to sew myself an appropriate dress.

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Anyone seeing Tavington striding through camp just before afternoon formation would have thought that the Colonel was absorbed, as usual, in whatever unpleasant thoughts generally made him appear capable of attacking anyone that happened to be in his way; but, truth be told, his mind was occupied by thoughts of his wife and how she had responded to his questions last night. His inquiries the previous afternoon had turned up the Dragoon who had first found her the day she turned up in the fields. According to Turner, she'd been in a state of disarray and confusion. "She were in a right state, sir," he'd said with an unpleasant smirk. "Feisty one, she is." Tavington had to resist the temptation to dock the man for his impertinence; after all, he hadn't said anything untrue. But Tavington had always disliked Turner—he would have been out of the Dragoons long ago had it not been for his consummate riding skill.

No one had been able to offer him any more information than that, and Tavington had decided, in the absence of conclusive incriminating evidence, to question the girl himself about her loyalties. Whatever she might be hiding, she was a horrid liar; and Tavington had had far too much experience discerning when someone was lying to his face not to recognize the truth in her eyes when she had told him about her parents last night. And, quite honestly, he was intrigued by her answer. Perhaps he would even ask her more about her views later; understanding the motivation of the enemy was vital to any successful military operation.

Tavington shook himself mentally and focused on the task at hand. His Dragoons were lined up, ready for inspection, swords shining and boots freshly polished. As Tavington's eyes swept down the lines, he noticed a lack of the telltale bright red that indicated Lawrence's presence—unless the twiddlepoop had actually remembered to remove the scarf this time. Scanning the ranks, he realized that there was no sign of the towering presence of Bligh either. "Captain Schoen!" barked Tavington at the soldier directly in front of him. "Where are Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence?"

"I don't know, sir," Schoen replied. "I haven't seen them since they left for patrol this morning, sir."

"Has anyone seen them?" said Tavington, now addressing the entire platoon. Silence greeted him. Tavington sighed heavily. Whatever ineffectual wags Lawrence and Bligh might be, they were always punctual; and if they weren't back yet, chances were that something had gone wrong. If the fools had gotten themselves captured….

Tavington turned back to the Captain. "Gather a squadron. We shall go after them." Turning on his heel, he went to ready his horse.

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From my vantage point in my sewing room, I saw a solitary rider galloping toward the house just before dinnertime. I had seen Cornwallis arrive with his escort about an hour before; this looked like a messenger. As he dismounted and ran toward the house, curiosity got the better of me, and I hurried downstairs to see if anything was amiss.

I found Cornwallis in the parlor, deep in whispered conversation with O'Hara. They stopped talking when I entered the room. "Is everything all right, General?" I asked, noticing that he looked decidedly graver than usual.

"Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence failed to return from patrol this morning, Mrs. Tavington," he said. "Your husband is leading a mission to see if anything can be learned about their disappearance."

My satisfaction at having started on my new dress immediately vanished, to be replaced by a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had just realized that the lieutenants were my only friends here; I couldn't bear to lose the only people around whom I felt remotely comfortable.

I must have looked worried, because the General smiled at me and patted my cheek reassuringly. "Not to worry, my dear, the Colonel knows better than to get himself captured. He should return before nightfall."

I had suddenly lost my appetite completely. I made a weak attempt at a smile for the General's sake and went back upstairs to the sitting room to stare out at the darkening sky.

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As dusk fell, Lawrence and Bligh found themselves tied to the trunk of a massive tree, the muzzle of a rebel's gun pointed at each of them. Bligh scowled as he altered his position slightly; the fresh round of bruises he had acquired through the course of the day had done nothing to improve his mood. The rebels had commandeered their horses and taken them deeper into the swamp until they reached a sort of marshy clearing. They had been held there for what felt like hours, and quite aside from his distaste at the thought of being interrogated or executed, Bligh was damned uncomfortable, what with the mosquitoes and the humidity.

Just as he was wondering how long it would be until their interrogation commenced and what information the rebels were likely to want, Bligh felt Lawrence nudge him. "How're you holding up, old chap?" he whispered, under the cover of an increasingly rowdy conversation taking place on the other side of the clearing.

"I'm all right, no thanks to you," replied Bligh, very much wishing he had a hand free with which to throttle Lawrence.

"Whatever do you mean?" Lawrence seemed genuinely confused at Bligh's hostility.

"It's your fault we're here, mate!" growled Bligh. "If you hadn't taken the initiative to appeal to Cornwallis, we wouldn't have gotten on the Colonel's bad side, and we wouldn't have had patrol this morning."

Lawrence snorted. "Begging your pardon, my dear fellow, but we were already on his bad side. And anyway," he continued, suddenly on the defensive, "you can't tell me he didn't appreciate it."

Bligh's eyes widened incredulously. Was Lawrence mentally impaired? "Yes, I believe I can. Have you ever seen even Tavington that angry?"

Lawrence thought for a moment. "Well, there was the time we—" Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a commotion on the other side of the clearing. The rebels had evidently heard something; they were all taking cover, muskets pointing into the woods, from whence came the sound of galloping hooves. Even their captors had abandoned them and were now racing across to back up the rest of their company. Seizing the opportunity, Lawrence struggled against the ropes, but was unable to free himself. Meanwhile, Bligh had managed to free his hands, but couldn't slip out of the ropes binding him to the tree. Lawrence thought for a moment. The rebels had taken their swords, of course, but… "Say, Bligh, can you reach my knife?"

Bligh eyed him dubiously. "I can try. Where is it?"

Lawrence looked slightly abashed and nodded toward a bulge in his trousers.

Bligh rolled his eyes and, after an awkward moment, pulled out the weapon. He sawed quickly through the ropes and the lieutenants slipped behind the tree to observe the scene unfolding before them.

The rebels had fired several shots haphazardly into the gathering dark among the trees, but the sounds from around the clearing had ceased, to be replaced by an ominous silence. Abruptly, fire erupted around them, and a dozen Dragoons rushed into the clearing, Tavington leading the way. He slashed his way through several rebels and engaged himself in swordplay with the one who appeared to be their leader.

Bligh looked over at Lawrence and was astonished to see that his friend had snuck out from behind the tree and was approaching the nearest rebel, who was crouched behind a bush. In one fell swoop, Lawrence removed the man's sword from its sheath, shoved him to the ground, and slammed the hilt into the rebel's head. Making sure the man wasn't likely to move anytime soon, Lawrence reached down, pulled the rebel's pistol from its holster and, grinning, tossed it back to Bligh. "Still going to blame me, mate?"

"Yes," said Bligh, a surly look on his face.

"Well, you can shove it, then, you short-heeled wench," said Lawrence, and rushed forward into the battle, Bligh just behind him.

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It was completely dark outside when I heard the first hint of hooves on the drive toward the house. I stood up, peering intently out. Gradually, I discerned a dozen or so figures on horseback. Not pausing to see who was with them, I ran downstairs and out onto the veranda, where I found Cornwallis, O'Hara, and several other officers assembled. "General—" I said breathlessly. "What—"

He held up a hand to silence me and gestured toward the Dragoons who were now dismounting and walking toward us, Tavington in front. His eyes swept briefly over to meet mine as he strode toward Cornwallis; I felt an unaccountable wave of relief wash over me and realized that, though I hadn't known it, I had been worried—about _Tavington_. As he began to speak to the General, I spotted Bligh and Lawrence standing together a few yards away. Not pausing to consider propriety, nor the fact that they were covered in mud and what looked unpleasantly like blood, I ran over to them and threw my arms around first Lawrence, then Bligh. The latter seemed rather uncomfortable, but I didn't care. "I'm so glad you're all right!"

"Thank you, ma'am," said Lawrence, smiling at me. "Your concern is much appreciated."

"What happened?" I said quickly. "General Cornwallis wouldn't give me any details."

Bligh glared at Lawrence. "Well, ma'am, Lieutenant Lawrence—"

"We were on patrol this morning," Lawrence interrupted smoothly, "and were captured by a group of rebel militia. Colonel Tavington led a squadron to locate us this evening once he realized we were missing."

I was astonished. "Tavington? Went to rescue you?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Bligh. "We defeated the rebels and rode straight back here on General Cornwallis's orders."

I couldn't believe Tavington had risked his own life to recover the lieutenants he so clearly considered useless. "I'm so glad you're safe," I said again. "If you'll pardon me, Lieutenants…"

I turned around and walked back to the veranda. The Dragoons were all milling about, talking or attempting to rid their uniforms of mud; and Tavington had just turned away from the General and was heading for his horse. I stopped him after he stepped off of the veranda. "Thank you," I said, looking him in the eye.

"For?" he said, returning my gaze.

"For rescuing the lieutenants. It was very…honorable of you," I said.

He gave me an inscrutable glance and made to turn away. "It is nothing, madam. I was merely doing my duty."

I grabbed his arm, noting as I did so that his uniform was stained with dirt and blood, and made him turn back toward me. "Well, thank you, anyway," I said, and without pausing to consider what I was doing, stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. I noticed, as I swept past him to go back into the house, that he looked rather shell-shocked. Once I stepped back inside, I realized that I was, too.

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"Did you see that?!" Lawrence whispered excitedly to Bligh. "Our plan's working!"

Bligh refused to answer on principle. He saw that Tavington was approaching and turned quickly back toward his horse. Lawrence, on the other hand, shot Tavington a happy smile, which faded abruptly when he noticed the look on Tavington's face.

"I found _this_ in the swamp, Lieutenant," said Tavington, brandishing his sword, on the end of which was draped a bright length of material, stained with mud. Lawrence reached happily for his scarf, but Tavington drew it back. "I'm afraid, Lieutenant, that this scarf is not within uniform regulation, as you well know. And I shall keep it for the time being." He walked back over to his horse and leapt on.

Bligh, who had been listening, sighed to himself. If the scarf was off-limits, he would have to rethink his plan—or perhaps even let the little bugger live.

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**AN: Thanks to TTT for fantabulous beta-ing and planning the batt-les.**


	10. Changes

I couldn't pretend that I wasn't unnerved after my moment with Tavington outside. I lay in my bed, half willing myself to fall asleep before he got back—I had left the door unlocked purposely this time—half wanting to stay awake to see him. But I couldn't talk to him yet. Not only was there the continuing issue of my confusion about him and Paris, but—in my happiness to see Bligh and Lawrence back safe, I had neglected to consider what their rescue meant in practical terms. The rebel militia wouldn't have let them go without a fight, and there had been no prisoners with the Dragoons when they returned. Much as I didn't want to reflect on it, it was clear that Tavington's men—and, undoubtedly, Tavington himself—had killed rebels tonight. Rebels—patriots—Americans. I had meant it when I made my promise to Tavington the night before; I wasn't going to wear my emotions on my sleeve where the Revolution was concerned. But distasteful as I found the idea of killing in general, it was infinitely worse when it was no longer abstract—when it involved people I knew, and a cause I believed in. I couldn't stomach the thought of Tavington actually participating in battle, especially now that I was beginning to care for him…even if I didn't yet know in what capacity.

I pushed these troublesome thoughts away and attempted, in earnest, to go to sleep. But then I heard the sound of boots on the steps, and a moment later, the opening of my door. Quickly, I squeezed my eyes shut and slowed my breathing. A moment later, Tavington came into view through my eyelashes. I thought he was looking at me, but couldn't be sure without opening my eyes more; and after a moment, he sighed and turned away. I watched furtively as he removed his boots and waistcoat and released his hair from its queue. As he turned back toward me, I saw that his shirt was ripped, and I could see some dried blood on it. The rescue mission this evening had very clearly been an actual fight. Sighing once more, Tavington settled down onto his makeshift bed and, again, fell asleep much more quickly than I did.

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Astonishingly, I woke up before Tavington had left the next morning. He had bathed and was in the process of buttoning a clean new shirt on. I sat up and stretched, yawning. "Good morning," I said.

"Good morning," he replied, and pulled on his waistcoat.

I ran my fingers through my tangled hair and groaned. "Good grief, I could use a comb," I said, more to myself than to Tavington.

He finished buttoning the waistcoat and pulled on his boots. "Regretfully, madam, our supply lines have been cut, and such extravagances as combs are running short."

"Oh," I said. "I was just talking to myself. Really, I'm capable of living without a comb." I smiled at him.

He gave me something halfway between a smile and a grimace. "Good day, madam," he said, and exited the room. I rolled my eyes; I had never been "madam"ed in my life before I got here, and now Tavington had just done it to me twice in the space of a three-sentence conversation.

There was still some hot water in a basin next to the tub, and I availed myself of the opportunity to have a bath. When I went downstairs, presentable at last, Cornwallis and a man I didn't know—around Tavington's age, and quite attractive in an aristocratic way—were in the dining room. They both stood when I entered the room, and I realized that the man was the first I had seen since I arrived here that wasn't in uniform. In fact, he had dressed with far more attention to his outfit than I had; his white-stockinged legs were clad in white breeches, and he wore a tailored white coat over a vest printed with pears and blossoms.

"Mrs. Tavington," said General Cornwallis. "May I present Mr. Edward Rutledge?"

I froze. Rutledge, whose house we were in? Who had signed the Declaration of Independence—and had a copy in his study? Who was an officer in the Continental Army? What the hell was he doing here, breakfasting with Cornwallis?

I extended my hand to Rutledge, who bowed low and brushed his lips over it. "Your servant, madam," he drawled.

My heart fluttered. "Delighted, Mr. Rutledge," I said, trying not to look too confused.

The General noticed my bewilderment and smiled. "Mr. Rutledge is under house arrest, Mrs. Tavington."

"Oh," I said, though that explained nothing.

"As you know, we have been relying on Mr. Rutledge's tacit hospitality whilst we have been residing here," said Cornwallis. "He has been an officer in the Continental Army these past months, and he was captured at Charles Towne. Rather than continue to hold him there, we felt it was only right that he, as a gentleman, be held here at his own home."

"Oh," I said again. It made no sense to me; but then, very little did these days.

Rutledge took a sip of tea. "Tell me, Mrs. Tavington, how do you find Peartree?"

"Um…" I said. It took me a moment to register what he was asking; I had never thought to ask what the name of the plantation was. The man must really have had a fascination with vegetation. "It's wonderful," I said sincerely. "The house is lovely, and the grounds are absolutely beautiful."

He nodded, clearly pleased, and took another sip. "I'm delighted to hear it. And may I inquire how a young lady such as yourself fills her days here at this lonely plantation?"

"Well—" I said, and paused. I couldn't very well tell him that I had broken into his desk and stolen fabric from his closet.

"Oh, she's kept quite busy, believe you me!" Cornwallis said, winking at Rutledge. The other man smiled knowingly and took another sip of tea. Honestly, sometimes I wondered about the General.

"The General tells me you've been making your own clothing," said Rutledge. "Are you interested in fashion, Mrs. Tavington?"

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After breakfast, during which I was continually shown up on the fashion front by the gentlemen I was dining with, I went up to my sewing room. I was dying to talk to Rutledge on my own, but it would have looked exceedingly suspicious, even to the good General, if I had immediately sought out the company of a prominent rebel to whom I had only just been introduced. And the other problem was my discovery the other day; how was I supposed to bring up the Declaration without revealing the extent of my snooping? In the end, I decided it was probably best just to come clean. If I wanted to ensure that the document was preserved without harm to either of us, it would be nice to have a confidant who had the same goal.

I had been sewing for about half an hour when I ran into a sleeve problem. I was modeling my new dress on the few examples I had, but the thing was proving damn slow to make, and I kept having to guess about how much fabric to use to make the bodice fit just right, and how much lace was appropriate. I had enjoyed sewing in a time when I had a machine at my disposal for the monotonous bits, but it was much more frustrating at present because progress was so incredibly slow. And now the sleeve was refusing to attach the way it was supposed to. I swore loudly just as a knock came on the door to the room.

"Oh—come in," I said, attempting to regain my composure.

The door swung open and Rutledge strolled in. "Good day, madam. I trust I am not disturbing you too much?" His eyes roamed over the yards of material piled haphazardly in my lap.

I smiled sheepishly. "Oh, no, not at all, Mr. Rutledge." Good grief, this was strange. "Um…I have to apologize for taking the liberty of borrowing this fabric. I found it in a closet, and we've been having supply problems, and—"

"No trouble at all, madam. It is always my pleasure to assist a pretty woman in whatever way I can." He executed a graceful bow. "Speaking of assistance, it looks as though you could perhaps use some as far as that dress is concerned."

"To be honest, it's driving me crazy," I confessed. If anyone could give me advice where dress was concerned, it was Rutledge.

"May I?" He gestured toward the bit of the dress I had been working on, and I handed it to him. He frowned as he examined it. "You shall need a good deal more lace, and perhaps some patterns. I shall speak to the General about it this evening."

"Thank you, that would be wonderful," I said. If my sewing project was going to progress—and, honestly, I needed it to, if I was going to have anything to fill my days—then I needed some help. And I also needed to talk to him about the Declaration—and why not now? Steeling up my courage, I said, "Um, Mr. Rutledge, I was browsing through your library a few days ago—you have a lovely collection, by the way—and I came across…some documents."

In the moment it took me to finish my sentence, his dapper air had vanished completely and his expression became guarded. "And may I inquire—of what nature were these documents?" His tone was still light, but I could tell it was forced.

I decided just to come out with it. "I found the Declaration," I said quietly.

He passed a hand over his eyes and turned away from me. "I had hoped…I left Peartree in rather a rush the last time, and I failed to take the time to—take certain precautions. But then—" he turned back to me, looking both worried and curious—"why has Cornwallis not had me drawn and quartered?"

"I haven't told him," I said. "And I don't intend to."

"Why not?" Rutledge seemed genuinely curious now.

"Because—well, my position prevents me from expressing any of my own convictions at the moment, but I do have them. And I have no interest in seeing you drawn and quartered. Or myself, for that matter." The precariousness of my position occurred to me when I considered the situation.

"And why should you be in any danger?" Rutledge regarded me intently.

"Firstly, because I found the…document, and secondly, because I hid it."

Rutledge raised an eyebrow delicately. "You hid it? Where?"

"In a book about the fruits in South Carolina," I said, feeling somewhat sheepish.

To my surprise, Rutledge chuckled. "And there it shall stay! Let us not speak any more about this, madam. Your secret is safe with me, as, I trust, is mine with you." I nodded, feeling better already. "Then—would you care to accompany me on a tour of the grounds?"

"I'd love to," I said, and leaving my troublesome sewing and my worries behind, I followed him out of the room.

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Bligh was enjoying a moment's peace in the silence of the woods. He had stayed close to camp, having no desire to be the subject of a rescue mission again (if, in fact, Colonel Tavington would bother trying to save him should he find himself the victim of another rebel kidnapping); but he needed a moment to reflect. He stopped beside a gently flowing brook and sat down, leaning against an obliging tree trunk. Almost immediately, Bligh leapt to his feet once more.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?!" he exclaimed.

"I followed you," replied Lawrence cheerily.

"_Why_?" growled Bligh.

"I wanted to know if you'd heard the gossip," Lawrence said breezily. "And anyway, there's no need to be so testy; if you'll recall, I saved your life last night."

Bligh sighed and conceded the point. "Fair enough."

Lawrence regarded Bligh, an expectant look on his face. "Well?"

"What?"

"Have you heard?"

Bligh resisted the urge to beat Lawrence over the head with his saber. "No."

Lawrence puffed out his chest importantly. "Edward Rutledge has come to the plantation to serve out the remainder of his sentence under house arrest!"

Bligh was momentarily startled. "You mean a rebel's living with Cornwallis and the Colonel?"

"Precisely, my dear fellow, you've hit the nail on the head." Lawrence looked off into the distance, pensive. "I wonder what he's like?" Bligh shook his head. "Ah, well, no matter, we've got sentry duty there tomorrow. I suppose we'll find out then."

"We do?" Bligh hadn't heard anything about sentry duty.

"Indeed we do. Captain Schoen told me this morning," said Lawrence. "Apparently Tavington's not thrilled that we got ourselves taken prisoner, so we're to remain close for the next couple of weeks. Schoen said the Colonel said that he'd be looking for any reason to punish us—so I'd give your sword a polish at least twice daily, if I were you."

Bligh groaned and buried his head in his large hands. He wished fervently that Lawrence hadn't just reminded him that he had the twiddlepoop to thank for saving his life; it would really just be impolitic to throttle him with the scarf now, even if he managed to steal it back from Tavington.

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Colonel Tavington was not at all in a good mood by the time he reached the plantation for dinner. It had been a long day in camp; though there had been no losses in last night's impromptu skirmish with the rebels, several of his men had been injured, one fairly seriously. And he himself was feeling rather stiff, the wound on his abdomen burning slightly. Then Lieutenant Lawrence had wandered into his tent mid-afternoon to inquire if the rumors about Edward Rutledge were true. That was the first Tavington had heard of the matter; trust Lawrence to be atop the gossip heap. And finally, there was the matter of his wife. He had no idea what her ridiculous display the night before had meant. He would never hit a woman, but he couldn't deny that it had been a temptation when he caught a glimpse of her throwing herself at Bligh and Lawrence. He had just gone to the trouble of explaining to her that her behavior reflected upon him as well as upon herself, since she clearly didn't care about her own reputation; and then she made an absurd exhibition with two young, single officers. And then, just when he had been considering appealing to Cornwallis to see if perhaps an annulment wasn't in order, she had—kissed him. No woman had ever kissed him on the cheek except his mother, and she hadn't done so since—well, since he had left home at 17. He had no idea what she meant by it, and he couldn't deny that he was unnerved: a feeling he was unaccustomed to and one which he disliked exceedingly.

Tavington dismounted, handing his horse's reins over to a stable boy, and marched up onto the veranda and into the house. Immediately, he heard a voice he didn't recognize in conversation with Cornwallis. He cursed under his breath—Lawrence's information must have been correct—and, steeling himself, proceeded into the dining room.

Gathered around the table were his wife and Cornwallis, as usual—and a man who, to all appearances, could be Lawrence's older brother. Or something. From the enormous cream-colored bow that tied back his auburn hair to the queer wedges on his high-heeled boots, the man was a dandy. Tavington realized suddenly that the conversation had ceased when he entered the room, and all three parties had stood, the stranger clearly waiting to be introduced. The pleasant smile on his face had faltered slightly under Tavington's scrutiny, and Tavington recognized he must have adopted a rather alarming scowl. He willed himself to conceal his distaste and turned to the General, who was now addressing him.

"Colonel William Tavington, may I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Edward Rutledge?" Cornwallis said amiably and, duty performed, took a sip of his wine.

"It's delightful to meet you at last, Colonel," said Rutledge affably, executing a short bow. "I've heard all about you from General Cornwallis and Mrs. Tavington."

"Enchanted, I'm sure," said Tavington, who was anything but. He doubted that his wife had actually been talking about him—if she had, it probably wasn't anything good—and he already disliked this fellow on instinct, not even considering his politics. What the devil was he doing here? Tavington raised an eyebrow at Cornwallis as he sat down. Cornwallis pretended not to see and took a large sip of wine.

"Mr. Rutledge spent some time in our native land, Colonel!" he said buoyantly, clearly trying to circumvent a potential conflict between Tavington and Rutledge before it began.

"Indeed," said Tavington, not bothering to feign interest.

"Yes, I studied the law at Oxford," said Rutledge, clearly quite proud. Tavington stole a glance over at his wife—was she actually _impressed_ by this strutting popinjay? "What part of England are you from, Colonel?"

"Liverpool," replied Tavington shortly, knowing the reaction his response would inevitably elicit.

Predictably, one of Rutledge's well-groomed eyebrows rose delicately, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a gentlemanly smirk. "Liverpool? I see. Tell me, Colonel, do your family own land there?"

"Yes," said Tavington, wishing very much that it were appropriate to draw one's saber at the dinner table. Since that option was unavailable at present unless he wished to find himself immediately demoted, he would have to go on the offensive in another manner. He'd love to attack Rutledge's loyalties, but that would also rile Cornwallis—and, most likely, his wife as well. He would have to be more subtle. "While you were at Oxford, Mr. Rutledge, I trust you took part in sport?"

Rutledge had the decency to look wary at Tavington's tone, at least. "Yes, I did."

Tavington adopted a tone close to cordial as he took a sip of his wine. "And what was your preferred form of physical exertion?"

"Badminton," said Rutledge.

Cornwallis smiled happily, nodding. "Fine game, badminton! Not quite what your typical military man engages in, eh, Tavington? But fine game, to be sure!"

"To be sure," echoed Tavington, unsmiling eyes riveted on Rutledge as a smirk played about his lips. "You played doubles, I'm certain."

"Indeed I did, sir," replied Rutledge. Tavington had to give him credit; he clearly had no idea to what these questions tended and was vaguely unnerved, but his tone belied no discomfort.

"And is your partner still in England chasing shuttlecocks?" Tavington's satisfaction at having delivered this line was somewhat tempered by shock: to his left, his wife had erupted into a coughing fit, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. Tavington glared at her, but she only smiled back, eyes watering as she gained control of herself.

"Please don't worry, General, I'm absolutely fine," she said, waving Cornwallis back into the chair from which he had half-risen. "Just choked on some water. You were saying, Mr. Rutledge?"

"Ah, yes. My badminton partner and I parted ways after Oxford, most unfortunately," drawled Rutledge, straightening his neckerchief and regaining his cool. "I don't suppose you play, Colonel?"

"No," said Tavington shortly.

"Pity," said Rutledge—pompously, Tavington thought. "Perhaps we could have arranged a contest." He smiled superciliously and set into his pudding.

"Oh, capital idea, sir!" boomed Cornwallis. "Perhaps something can be arranged!"

Tavington cursed the social conventions that prevented him from murdering everyone in the room. He contented himself by keeping a hand firmly on his sword under the table for the remainder of the meal.

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	11. I Drive These Brothers Crazy

Though I managed to control my first outburst at dinner, it only proved more difficult as the evening progressed. Rutledge and Cornwallis became more and more gregarious, while Tavington, realizing that his insinuations about Rutledge's—um, gentlemanhood—weren't having the desired affect on his target, had given up on speech. Instead, he spent the remainder of dinner sitting rigidly on the edge of his seat, eyes narrowed, staring at Rutledge with comically intense distaste. I noted with amusement that Tavington's left hand was not-so-subtly grasping the hilt of his sword at his side; Rutledge seemed to have replaced the unfortunate lieutenants as the bane of Tavington's existence and the target of his tendency toward violence. Had Rutledge not been securely in the protection of Cornwallis's good will, I might have seriously feared for his safety—this weird fascination I had with Tavington wasn't enough to blind me, in my more rational moments, to the fact that he was dangerous—but as it was, I was nothing so much as entertained.

After dinner we moved into the parlor, where Rutledge immediately offered to "divert us all". Tavington's eyebrows lowered ominously at this suggestion, but Cornwallis applauded the idea. "Oh, by all means, my dear sir. Capital!"

Rutledge smiled. He crossed the room and removed a dusty violin from its place on the mantel. He plucked the strings and grimaced to himself as we all settled onto chairs. "I do apologize, but I'm afraid it's rather dreadfully out of tune." I stole a glance at Tavington as Rutledge tuned his violin; the Colonel's expression was so incredibly murderous that I wondered whether he might not just give in and attack poor Rutledge.

"And what do you fancy, Mrs. Tavington?" Rutledge turned to me, violin tuned, bow raised eagerly.

"Um…do you know any Haydn?" I said tentatively.

Rutledge raised an eyebrow. "The _Prussian_?"

"I suppose so," I said. Clearly not everyone shared Lawrence's enthusiasm for Prussians.

"I'm afraid not, madam. What about a gavotte? Perhaps you and the Colonel would care to have a dance?" Rutledge smiled conspiratorially at Cornwallis, who smiled back and ate a lemon drop. They both looked at me expectantly.

"I…um…" I said intelligently.

Tavington made my answer unnecessary by rising out of his chair so suddenly that I jumped. "You must excuse me, Mr. Rutledge," he growled. "I find that I am rather…fatigued. I bid you good day." And with that, he spun on his heel and exited the room. We all listened to him march up the stairs and slam the bedroom door; and then Rutledge resumed his expectant position.

"Carl Bach, then," he said, and began to bow vigorously.

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I wandered upstairs after half an hour of Rutledge's playing. It was lovely, but I really was tired, and, truthfully, I was curious to see if I could get any conversation out of Tavington. He had been so viciously disagreeable this evening that I wondered if maybe there was something bothering him. Besides, of course, his general bad humor reacting to the addition of a foppish rebel to our everyday lives.

My hand was already on the handle to my bedroom door before I realized that it might be prudent to knock. Memories of my odd encounter with Tavington the evening before had been popping up, unwanted, in my head all day long, and the last thing I needed was to fuel my confusion by seeing the man less than fully clothed. My tap on the door was met with a gruff "Enter."

I needn't have worried. Tavington was stretched out on the bed, clad in his usual nighttime attire: uniform shirt, slightly open, and riding pants. His hands were behind his head, and he was staring intently up at the canopy over the bed. Involuntarily, I felt a pang of sympathy. "Long day?"

"In more than one way," agreed Tavington, unhooking his hands from behind his head and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. He heaved a large sigh and stood up, swaying slightly. "You'll forgive me, madam, if I am more than usually inclined toward sleep."

With some difficulty, I refrained from rolling my eyes. "I won't be offended if you go to bed, if that's what you're trying to say. You know, you don't have to treat me like I'm a total stranger." A voice in the back of my head reminded me that we _were_ pretty much total strangers, but my natural desire to befriend people overrode my consciousness of the bizarre situation I was in.

But Tavington had already adopted the brusque exterior he always had, any trace of weakness gone. We stood regarding each other across the bed, his ice-blue eyes locked onto my darker ones with an almost challenging expression. He didn't say anything, and my sympathy quickly morphed into frustration.

"What is _wrong_ with you?!" I burst out. "You're obviously upset about something, but how do you think it's going to get any better if you don't let it out?"

He raised an eyebrow when I began speaking, but otherwise remained passive. "I wasn't aware that you would be offended by my reticence," he said coolly. "I beg your pardon, madam."

That was it. I stormed around the bed to where Tavington stood and stared him in the eye, trying to ignore his height advantage. "If you call me 'madam' one more time…." I didn't, of course, have an appropriate threat to finish that statement, but he fortunately ignored this.

"As you wish," he replied composedly, turning away from me. "I would by no means wish to affront your sensibilities."

I resisted the urge to slap him with some difficulty and stormed into the adjoining closet to change into my sweatpants and shirt. When I came back out, Tavington was asleep, or pretending to be. I climbed into bed, still seething, but I was asleep before I could contemplate why exactly I cared so much about what Tavington called me.

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Colonel Tavington had left the plantation early the next morning, determined to avoid any conversation with his wife. And, as usual, she had remained asleep as he left the room. He fully intended to talk to Cornwallis the moment the General arrived at camp; the situation could not continue. In the meantime, he had some business to attend to.

Tavington strode across camp toward the Dragoons' sector under the lightening sky. He paused for a moment, getting his bearings, and then ducked into a tent directly in front of him. "Lieutenants!" he barked.

Bligh and Lawrence leapt out of bed to attention, Bligh blinking furiously, Lawrence yawning surreptitiously. Tavington smiled coldly. "I was under the impression that you had sentry duty at the plantation today. Were you planning to fulfill your obligations, or would you perhaps rather spend the day in bed?"

There was no reply: Bligh knew any answer would only incense the Colonel further, and Lawrence's attention had been caught by a flash of red. Tavington followed Lawrence's gaze. "Yes, Lieutenant Lawrence, I have your scarf. I am returning it to you only because I never wish to see it again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," mumbled Lawrence, taking the scarf. "Thank you, sir."

"If I ever see you with that scarf around your neck again, Lieutenant, it will be because I am strangling you with it. Do I make myself clear?" barked Tavington.

"Yes, sir," repeated Lawrence.

Tavington said nothing, merely turned on his heel and ducked out of the tent. He sincerely hoped Cornwallis would be in to camp early this morning; the only way to alleviate his current foul mood would be to talk the General out of this continuing ridiculousness. Fortunately, by the time he made it across camp, Tavington saw sentries stationed outside Cornwallis's tent. He marched in, glaring at the sentries as he did so.

The General was seated at his table, sipping a cup of tea as O'Hara pointed something out on a map. Both men turned to look at Tavington as he entered, O'Hara offering a curt nod and a slight sneer, Cornwallis a surprised smile. "Colonel Tavington! What brings you here this morning? I had thought you were attending to the Dragoons' supply lists?"

"I am, Milord. However, I've run into some—difficulties, and I wondered if you might have a moment to spare?"

"Yes, of course. How may we be of service?" Cornwallis looked expectant, and Tavington realized, belatedly, that O'Hara was still there.

"Forgive me, Milord, but I feel these matters are best discussed…_privately_." It was a risk, but Tavington obviously couldn't discuss his marriage—or Rutledge—with O'Hara present.

Cornwallis raised his eyebrows and turned to O'Hara, who begrudgingly took the hint. It was no secret that he disliked Tavington. "I shall be in the armory, Milord," he said shortly, and exited.

Cornwallis turned back to Tavington, smile broadening. "Now, what can I do for you, my dear fellow? Having trouble…sleeping?"

It was all Tavington could do to stop his eyes from rolling. "Not precisely, Milord."

"Well, out with it, then! You're fooling nobody with your circumlocution," barked the General.

Tavington took a deep breath. "Milord, I have given the matter much reflection, and I have come to ask you to consider an annulment."

Whatever Cornwallis had expected, it wasn't that. The knowing grin disappeared instantly, and he looked positively floored. "An _annulment_?"

"Yes, Milord. I find that the married state is unsuited to my own disposition, and I believe my wife to be…" How best to put this? He couldn't attack the girl, or Cornwallis would dismiss the request instantly. "…unready for marriage, particularly to an insensitive brute such as myself."

By the time this sentence was out, Cornwallis had clearly recovered. "Oh, Tavington, if that's your only complaint, I think the whole matter is best discussed with your wife!" he said, knowing smile creeping back onto his face.

"Milord?" Now it was Tavington's turn to be mildly astonished.

"You can't come running to your superiors every time you and Mrs. Tavington have a spat!" said the General, wagging his index finger at Tavington.

"Sir, I—"

"None of that, now, Colonel! I realize it's quite a change for a young whippersnapper such as yourself to be tied down to a woman—" Cornwallis waggled his eyebrows— "but all men go through this once they reach a certain age."

This conversation was not at all going the way Tavington had envisioned. "Milord—"

"No, no, my dear Colonel, you will just have to keep your head down," continued Cornwallis as though Tavington hadn't interrupted him. "Live and learn, as they say. Marriages aren't always such happy affairs as your first week has been! Now and then even the most blissful couple must have a tiff. Part of the institution, you see."

"_Milord_," said Tavington, so firmly that the General was forced to pause momentarily and take notice. "There were other reasons than merely my own sensibilities."

"I must reiterate, Colonel Tavington, that I have no interest in counseling you on your marriage," thundered Cornwallis, eyebrows coming together ominously. "However, in the interests of Mrs. Tavington, I shall hear you out."

"You are most gracious, Milord," replied Tavington, noting again the General's obvious preference for his wife. Cornwallis nodded curtly, accepting the compliment, and gestured for Tavington to continue as he took a sip of tea. "To put questions of incompatibility aside for a moment, I must speak to you about a more practical issue. As you know, my family name has been…tarnished…by my late father's behavior."

Cornwallis nodded again, looking somewhat wary, and took another sip of tea as Tavington continued. "My intent had always been to marry—advantageously, as the option of marrying for more sentimental reasons was closed to me due to circumstance." Tavington sincerely hoped that the General understood his insinuations, but Cornwallis's closed expression offered no clarification as to his thoughts. "My father's choices left me to make few of my own, and it therefore came as something of a shock to find myself married to a girl of questionable loyalties and dubious parentage. I did your bidding, Milord, which I accepted as the duty of an officer to his superior, but—I must now ask you to revoke that order and grant me my independence once more. Give me the opportunity to pursue my own objects, Milord, and place the girl into the care of someone who can provide for her properly." Speech delivered, Tavington felt almost more tension than before. He had tried to make it clear that the marriage made little practical sense, for the girl as well as for him, but there was no indication that Cornwallis saw it as anything other than Tavington's attempt to remove himself from an unpleasant situation and abandon his wife.

The General was silent for a moment and took a final sip of tea before turning his gaze from the table to Tavington, considering the Colonel intently. Finally, he spoke. "Colonel Tavington, I understand that your father's conduct must have been a difficult burden to bear. I believe that to be the reason you originally abandoned university in favor of a military career?" Tavington nodded mutely, hardly daring to hope that the General would actually yield to his request. "Colonel, you have risen through the ranks rapidly since purchasing your commission," continued Cornwallis. "You have proven yourself a consummate commander time and again. However," and the General's eyebrows came together again, "you have taken a worrying turn toward brutality in recent weeks. These tactics may win battles, but they do not win wars; rather, slaughter of civilians will serve only to incense the populace further. I believe I told you, perhaps a fortnight ago, that you should find another way of helping to rid the colonies of these troublesome rebels?"

"You did, Milord," said Tavington, feeling that the conversation was no longer headed in the direction he had hoped for.

"And, as of a week ago, I saw no indication that your strategy had changed at all. And then Miss Kat arrived on our doorstep, as the saying goes. She needed protection, you needed a tempering influence, and I trusted that everything else would take care of itself gradually."

Tavington fought to keep his voice steady as he said, "Clearly, Milord, your assumptions were—misinformed. My marital state has done nothing to improve my—"

"Ah, but it has, Colonel!" boomed Cornwallis, smiling once more. "Your raid on the rebel troops two days ago proved that. You wiped out a squadron of rebels, but the reports from your men were that you were merciful, even to the point of offering the last several the option of surrender."

Tavington cursed himself for his foolish moment of mercy—it had come purely from a sense of security, his men surrounding the three remaining rebels. "Yes, Milord, and then I killed one myself," he said, determined to prove Cornwallis's theory wrong.

"Because he attacked you!" said Cornwallis. "And I believe you bear a wound to attest to the fact!"

Tavington frowned and touched the sore sport on his abdomen. "Milord, I fail to see how this has anything to do with my wife."

"Colonel, whether you choose to recognize the fact or not, that woman has had an impact on you!" rumbled the General.

"Even if that _is_ the case, Milord, I feel that the impact has been solely negative in nature!" spat Tavington, trying in vain to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "She is entirely too—free-spirited and liberal! Trying to converse with her is maddening!"

"My dear fellow, I've seen what you refer to as conversation, and I assure you that it is not—at least not the type of conversation one has with ladies," said Cornwallis, somewhat pompously.

"She can hardly be referred to as a lady!" snapped Tavington.

Cornwallis raised his eyebrows. "Heavens, Colonel, what _has_ Mrs. Tavington done to you? I imagine," he said, a smile creeping across his face, "that you find it rather harder to force her to submit to your will than you do your men."

Tavington could feel his face reddening from anger, much against his will. Did _everyone_ know what had happened on his wedding night? Well, surely the General wasn't implying that _now_—he'd done his best to keep up appearances— "This is absurd, Milord!"

Rather than taking objection to Tavington's insubordination, Cornwallis merely smiled more broadly. "I quite agree, Colonel, but may I remind you that it was _you_ who came to me this morning, demanding a solution for your marital problems?"

"The woman is a horror, Milord!" roared Tavington. "Quite aside from my continuing objections about her parentage and lack of fortune, she is frightfully independent and entirely too opinionated! This is an impossible situation, I tell you!"

"Impossible, Colonel Tavington?" said Cornwallis, unperturbed by Tavington's outburst. "I hardly think so. First, as I believe I hinted when you and Mrs. Tavington first became engaged, I might be persuaded to assist you in securing a better place in society than the one your father forfeited. Once this colonial squabble is over, you will find that, through me, you will be extremely well-positioned to find land and perhaps even a title. However," and his eyebrows lowered once more, "I must stress that this rests on my recommendation of you. And that recommendation is based largely upon your treatment of Miss Kat. _Secondly_," he continued, raising a hand to silence Tavington's attempts to interrupt, "I find it very difficult to suppose that you bear any serious animosity toward your wife, despite your protests. How could you expect anyone to believe that you truly desire an annulment, when your very actions lead the world to see otherwise?"

"Milord?" said Tavington, utterly floored.

"I've seen the way you look at her, Colonel!" said Cornwallis, smiling knowingly. "And who could blame you, with a woman as beautiful and charming as she? And, of course, there is the irresistible attraction of a man to a woman who is in love with him."

"Milord?" said Tavington again, stupidly. Cornwallis could not _possibly_ be suggesting that—

"Oh, Colonel, it's no use trying to be sly," said the General, waving a hand airily. "It may be harder for the casual observer to spot your own interest in the lady, but anyone may see the extent to which she admires you! Oh, and that reminds me—" Cornwallis turned his back to his underling, rummaging through the drawers at his desk. A moment later, he emerged with a small packet, which he thrust at Tavington.

Tavington stared at his commander, utterly at a loss. Was the General giving him a _gift_?

Cornwallis shook his head in annoyance. "Well, open it! I haven't got all morning!"

Tavington, baffled, opened the packet and shook its contents out into his hand. In his palm sat a plain gold ring. He gaped at the General, bemused. "I'm afraid I don't…"

"It was my wedding band, Tavington! Of course you know how very attached I was to my late wife…" Cornwallis trailed off, dabbing at his eyes, and there was an awkward silence. After a moment he shook his head. "Well. There's every indication that you and Mrs. Tavington will be just as devoted to one another as we were, and I wanted you to have that. To _remind_ you of how important marriage is." He glared at Tavington somewhat threateningly. "Go on, put it on."

"Milord, I—" Tavington was speechless, a phenomenon that had become increasingly common for him since this girl had appeared in his life, but Cornwallis merely continued to glare. Tavington, who did not see that he had much of a choice in the matter, sighed and slid the ring over his knuckle.

"There's a good lad," said Cornwallis, now smiling as he popped a lemon drop into his mouth.

With a supreme effort, Tavington cleared his throat and forced himself not to consider the ramifications of their conversation thus far. "Forgive me, Milord, but there was—one other matter about which I wished to speak with you."

"What is it, Colonel?" sighed Cornwallis.

"Mr. Rutledge, Milord," said Tavington, regaining his composure as he thought of the hateful arrogance of that useless whorepipe with whom he now shared a house. "I fail to understand why you believe it necessary to have rebel scum residing at your headquarters."

"That's quite enough, Colonel!" thundered the General. "I of course find Rutledge's politics loathsome, but he is a gentleman. And," he said, heaving an enormous sigh, "he is the only proper society one finds around these parts."

Tavington forced himself to overlook the troublesome aspects of this concept and continued on the offense. "Be that as it may, sir, he is a security threat, not to mention a corrupting influence on—my wife. And Peartree is a ridiculous name for a residence," he added as an afterthought.

Cornwallis, anger forgotten, chuckled to himself. "Aha! Now I see, Colonel! You have some jealousy toward Mr. Rutledge, perhaps?"

"Jealousy! Milord, that is—" Tavington began to protest.

"I beg your pardon, sir, it is far from absurd," interrupted Cornwallis. "The man is clearly not a security threat—at least as far as military security is concerned. As to your wife, however—well, I see why you're worried, Colonel—he's a handsome devil, is Rutledge!"

"I—" Tavington again found himself speechless, but it was no matter, as he was soon interrupted once more by the General.

"I must concede your point about the house, however—demmed foppish name for a plantation—but you cannot deny that it makes sense." And with that cryptic statement, Cornwallis waved a dismissing hand at Tavington. "Now, Colonel, you've taken up quite enough of my time. Back to your regiment."

"Milord," said Tavington, bowing shortly and turning abruptly in an attempt to leave the tent as quickly as possible.

But he wasn't quite fast enough. "And give those boots a polish, man!" bellowed the General as Tavington ducked out. "Disgraceful!"

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After Tavington had left the tent, Bligh and Lawrence had dressed hurriedly, mounted their steeds, and galloped over to Peartree to relieve the overnight sentries. As they assumed their usual posts on the veranda, Bligh caught Lawrence replacing the beloved red scarf about his neck.

"Lawrence, remove that at once!" he growled.

Lawrence merely smiled and gazed at his reflection in a window, adjusting the scarf slightly. "Why should I? The Colonel won't be along until much later in the day, and no one will report me in the meantime."

"I will," said Bligh threateningly.

"Oh, you wouldn't dream of it, not really!" said Lawrence, throwing Bligh what he clearly believed was a winning smile.

"Want to take a wager?" said Bligh surlily. Before Lawrence could respond, however, the front door opened, and out strolled a tall man, smiling pleasantly as he surveyed the surroundings. Lawrence nudged Bligh excitedly and Bligh rolled his eyes; clearly, this was the Rutledge Lawrence had been so excited about the day before. Rutledge was resplendent in shining white stockings, breeches, and waistcoat, and his chest was adorned with a neckerchief so prominent that it put even Lawrence's scarf to shame. He turned and saw the lieutenants, and his smile brightened.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" he drawled, bowing briefly. "Edward Rutledge, at your service."

"Delighted, Mr. Rutledge!" said Lawrence, eyeing Rutledge's neckerchief enviously. "Lieutenant James T. Lawrence at yours."

"Enchanted!" said Rutledge, turning to Bligh.

"Bligh," said Bligh shortly.

Rutledge's smile faltered slightly, but he still managed a "Pleasure," before he turned back to Lawrence. The lieutenant was staring at Rutledge's neckerchief with a hungry expression. Rutledge smiled more broadly than ever and addressed himself to Lawrence. "That is a delightful scarf, sir!" he said.

Lawrence looked as though Christmas had come early. "Thank you, sir!" he said.

"Might you care to accompany me on a stroll about the grounds?" inquired Rutledge.

"Certainly!" chirped Lawrence, and without a backward glance, the two left Bligh on the veranda. Bligh sighed to himself, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his huge hands, and settled in for a long day of blissful silence.

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**AN: Surprisingly enough, "surlily" is actually a word! (Microsoft Word doesn't think so, but the dictionary and TTT do :-) **


	12. Oops, My Bad, That's My Scenario

_July 1780_

Over the course of the next several weeks, my new life developed an odd sort of routine. I woke up each morning to find Tavington already off to the camp for the day; but once I reached the dining room, Cornwallis and Rutledge were there, sipping tea and discussing books, Europe, men's fashion—everything, really, except the war, a subject they steadfastly avoided. I could see that they appreciated each other as gentlemen, distasteful though they seemed to find each other's particular views on King George. After breakfast, Cornwallis went off to camp, while I talked to Rutledge. My shock at the surrealism of the situation gradually lessened, and I came to accept the fact that a signer of the Declaration of Independence was giving me fashion advice. Rutledge was, in fact, quite the dandy, as Cornwallis had implied: he and Lawrence seemed to have become fast friends, similar in their tastes and positions as former gentlemen-about-town.

I spent the majority of my day post-breakfast either sewing, reading, or going for a ride. The first time I commandeered a horse, I had received incredulous looks from just about everyone, but as time wore on, they became accustomed to seeing me, a girl wearing pants astride a horse. I wasn't about to learn to ride sidesaddle. I also meandered about the grounds with Rutledge if it wasn't too oppressively hot out, and I grew to enjoy his company, even if he was rather foppish. And if Lawrence and Bligh were on sentry duty, as they often were, I always stopped to chat with them.

In the late afternoon, Cornwallis returned to Peartree. More often than not, he wasn't in the best of moods; apparently the course of the war was beginning to change in favor of the Americans. Which made sense—I had finally had the idea to sneak a look at the date on the daily dispatches Cornwallis received and gleaned that it was now July 1780. The end was near, as far as I could remember. Sometimes I wondered what would happen to everyone I knew here when that end came—but I always quickly prevented myself from thinking much about that, as it was irrelevant where I was concerned. Come September, I would hopefully be back home, and the only way any of this would ever matter to me again would be in the course of my education.

Theoretically, when I was sitting in my room sewing and looking out over the fields, it was easy to be pragmatic and impersonal. When I was around everyone I had gotten to know, it became increasingly difficult. I was sincerely attached to Bligh and Lawrence, and I enjoyed the company of Cornwallis and Rutledge. And then—there was Tavington. Every evening as the sun was setting he rode back to Peartree and joined us just in time for dinner. Our dinner party was always marginally uncomfortable: Tavington's hostility toward Rutledge, however carefully guarded, always managed to shine through, though I didn't know whether it was due to Rutledge's political views or his choice of conversational topics. Every time the conversation veered toward poetry or waistcoats—frequently—Tavington's brow furrowed a bit more and he sipped his wine just a little faster. Rutledge, I knew, could tell that the Colonel didn't like him, and sometimes even played up to it; but Cornwallis was happily oblivious. And I enjoyed the whole thing immensely. To me it felt like a series of twisted family dinners.

After dinner, we all generally sat in the parlor for an hour or so while my companions drank brandy. Cornwallis had tried politely to ban me from this ritual—worried again, I suppose, about propriety—but I explained in no uncertain terms that I did not intend to be left to sit in the dark alone just to spare me the indecent sight of men drinking. Once I was included, it became my favorite part of the day. Rutledge often played the violin, much to Tavington's discomfort, and I sat back and watched the polite animosity flow.

And eventually, every night, either I yawned or the General made a show of checking his pocket watch, and we all proceeded to bed. I always went first, and Tavington delayed a few minutes to allow me to change and climb into the four-poster before he came in. There were moments when I almost allowed myself to be charmed by his impeccable manners—but I always remembered, in the end, that that could not happen. There were still three major problems: Paris, my desire to go home, and the fact that Tavington was employed as a professional killer of my forefathers. Well, not literally, or I wouldn't be alive to be here—or maybe I could be? I had never understood the logistics of time travel—but the principle was what mattered.

And so I tried to maintain my distance. Though, truth be told, it was becoming increasingly difficult the more remote I tried to make myself to him. My natural tendency to befriend everyone around me made it hard for me not to try to make Tavington like me despite all of my reservations. And as for my reservations…well, honestly, the only one I could still cling to completely was the third. My desire to go home was still fervent, but as I became closer to the people I was around, I chose to push the thought away until the solstice was upon me and I absolutely had to think about it. And I was incredibly confused about Paris. Obviously I still loved him, but our fight the night before I'd ended up here had made me think a lot about our relationship, and whether I might not need to take a break once I finally made it back. But I managed to convince myself based on Tavington's occupation and beliefs that it was dangerous for me to get close to him; and so I avoided any personal conversation when we were alone. Every night when he came into the room, I said very little besides a polite "Good night." And did my best not to stare while he removed his non-essential clothing.

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Colonel Tavington was most severely displeased. He was seated in his tent, staring past the papers on his desk at nothing in particular. The sun was setting in a red sky, and all of the Dragoons were in the mess, but he had lately taken to pushing his evening ride back to Peartree as late as possible. Ashamed though he was to admit it to himself, his frustration—and lack of progress—with his wife was taking its toll on him. It had been nearly a month since the wedding, and—nothing. His wife, rather than warming up to him, had instead taken to acting almost as though she were afraid of him. She avoided meeting his eye, even in conversation at dinner, and she took care never to be caught alone in conversation with him. In fact, the only time he truly had an opportunity to talk to her was at night, when he came up to her room—and, more often than not, she was pretending to be asleep.

The thing that bothered the Colonel most, however, was not in fact his wife's absurdly infuriating avoidance of contact with him. No, the most bothersome aspect of the situation was—the fact that he was infuriated at all. At first, just after his frustratingly unproductive conversation with Cornwallis, he had considered all possible avenues of extricating himself from the predicament—that is to say, his marriage. If Cornwallis wouldn't concede to an annulment, Tavington couldn't pursue one himself; it would have undermined his career, and his reputation was all he had to build himself a life once the rebels had been subdued and he could return to England. Therefore, it seemed that the only option he had if he really wanted to rid himself of his wife without sullying his name would be to…_dispose_ of her. Very carefully. Perhaps he could make it appear that she had fallen on his saber, or something.

But that very night at dinner, as he was brooding meditatively to himself and wondering how best to approach his plan—poison, perhaps?—Rutledge had distracted him by making an absurd statement about triangular trade, and Tavington had been forced to abandon his plot temporarily in order to express his contempt for the other man. And, having made some appropriately cutting remark, he accidentally met Kat's eye. She had clearly been trying not to laugh—for whatever reason, she seemed to find his hatred of Rutledge amusing—but she sobered abruptly, looking at Tavington quizzically. He turned back to his food immediately, but not soon enough to avoid being unsettled by the fact that his wife had observed that something was amiss. Very well, then—he would have to carry out his plan sooner rather than later, before she suspected anything.

He climbed the stairs that night in a rage, after a stint with Cornwallis and Rutledge downstairs that had nearly succeeded in driving him to violence. Cornwallis obviously had no interest in ensuring that Tavington's aggressive tendencies were truly tempered if the General had thought that introducing Rutledge into Tavington's life would produce any sort of positive effect. Lost in these thoughts, Tavington burst into his wife's bedroom, very nearly believing himself ready to carry out his plan. And then—he saw that she was asleep, curled up on her side, the light quilt covering her only up to her abdomen. One hand was at her side, the other tangled in her hair, which flowed freely across the pillow and down her back. And Tavington knew instantly—not only could he not carry out the plan, but…he actually _cared_ for her.

It would have to stop, of course. Marriage and affection had nothing to do with one another; he had learned this at an early age. His parents had married for mutual advantage: his mother had money and his father potential, and in the seventeen years that he had lived under their roof, he had not seen either one exhibit any sign of fondness aside from those false displays put on for guests. No, marriage was nothing more than a tool for advancement, and hadn't the circumstances of his own betrothal proved that? Hadn't Cornwallis said in so many words that Tavington had to marry if he wanted to secure his position?

And yet—he was fascinated by her. She was exasperatingly cheerful most of the time and maddeningly outspoken always, and she had no concept of propriety or how a lady should behave, and still he was fascinated. Moreover, almost immediately after his moment of self-discovery, he had noticed a distinct coolness in her behavior toward him. She talked less and less to him as time progressed, not more, and he even noticed that she was reluctant to look at him. He was at a complete loss to understand not only why he should be attracted to such a woman—he had given up on reason there—but also why any woman would not be completely enthralled with him. She had no reason not to be elated with this marriage, aside perhaps from its suddenness; he was an honorable soldier of good standing and potential, and extraordinarily good-looking. Why, then, was she not warming to him? Granted, he had not gone out of his way to woo her; but no other woman had ever needed encouragement beyond his natural charm. Why should she be any different? Cornwallis _had_ implied that she—but that was clearly the General's hyperactive matchmaking once more; if it were actually true that she—cared for him, she would have stopped being so reserved long ago.

And then there was the disturbing presence of Rutledge. Beyond the everyday irritation of having to share a house with the traitorous squirrel, Tavington had serious qualms about the nature of his wife's relationship with Rutledge. Of course, he had nothing to worry about—he was twice the man Rutledge was, in more ways than one—but the fact remained that Kat was distancing herself increasingly from him, Tavington, while cultivating an ever-closer friendship with Rutledge. Since some portion of Tavington's makeup refused to believe that she would actually betray him, he considered the other possibility, unpleasant though it was: that she legitimately preferred the company of a foppish wag to his own. And the only reason that he could think of that would possibly explain this was her original political views. She had acquiesced to his demand that, as his wife, she express no opinion about the colonial squabble, but Tavington knew all too well that merely failing to express one's opinion did not make one opinionless.

Tavington shook himself mentally and sighed, noting that the sun had very nearly slipped under the horizon while he sat pondering. He stood, straightened the papers on his desk, and walked out of the tent to where his horse was tethered. Mounting the beast, he rode toward Peartree under the darkening sky.

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Bligh blinked into the setting sun and, turning around, walked back up the steps onto Peartree's veranda. Yawning surreptitiously, he tousled his hair with a Brobdignagian hand and turned to his companion. "Say, Lawrence, do you see anything yet?"

The other lieutenant shook his head. "Not yet. I wonder what's keeping him?" Not waiting for an answer, Lawrence answered himself. "Perhaps he's bringing the night sentries along to relieve us."

"Not likely," said Bligh darkly.

Lawrence sighed deeply. "I thought not." He squinted into the shaded, tree-lined avenue and, seeing nothing, sighed again. Suddenly, he brightened. "I say!"

Bligh peered into the darkness. "What is it?"

"No, not that!" chirped Lawrence. "It's only—do you know what Edward told me today?"

"What?" growled Bligh. He had learned some time ago that it was best to let Lawrence have his say immediately where Rutledge was concerned, as the other lieutenant's tales tended toward epic length if allowed to simmer in his brain for too long.

"He told me the most _delightful_ joke—now, how did it begin? Ah, yes—how can you tell a Prussian from a cam—"

"Someone's coming," said Bligh abruptly, thoroughly grateful to whoever it was for providing him with an excuse for cutting Lawrence off.

"Oh, dear!" said Lawrence, leaping to attention and scrambling to remove his scarf. Task accomplished, he stowed it in a bushy plant just off the veranda.

Against all judgment, Bligh was compelled to question Lawrence's eternal devotion to his beloved accessory. "Why do you insist upon wearing that thing, eh? Seems more trouble than it's worth—if the Colonel sees you out of uniform again…"

"Well, it's more important than uniform, isn't it?" said Lawrence huffily. "Androclus gave it to me as a parting gift and bade me never remove it. And besides," he continued, cutting off Bligh's interruption, "Edward's always telling me how lovely it is. Says it'll make me even more popular at the next ball."

Bligh bit off his retort, seeing that the approaching figure, now nearly in hearing distance, was in fact Colonel Tavington. And the Colonel did not look especially pleased. He dismounted and turned to his lieutenants. "Bligh! Lawrence!" he barked. "Come here at once!" The lieutenants obeyed immediately. Tavington handed Lawrence his horse's reins. "Take him to the stables, Lawrence, and ensure that he is properly cared for. Brush him down yourself, if you have to." Lawrence nodded wordlessly and led the horse away toward the stables. Bligh stood at attention, waiting for his orders. "And you, Lieutenant Bligh," said Tavington menacingly. "Pull out your sword."

Bligh grimaced inwardly and unsheathed his sword. Tavington grabbed it away from him and examined it closely. "A fine weapon," he drawled, running a gloved hand down its length. "And yet—so poorly cared for. How many times, Lieutenant, must I remind you that your sword must be polished at least daily, and much more often if it is used frequently?" His eyes glinted dangerously, and Bligh remained silent, knowing that protests would only earn him more severe punishment. "Therefore, Lieutenant Bligh, to teach you the importance of proper weapon care, you will polish not only your own sword, but mine as well." He thrust both weapons at Bligh and marched off toward the house. Hand on the door handle, Tavington glanced down and then turned back toward Bligh. "And once you've finished those, you shall also give my boots a go. They appear to be scuffed, and since your polishing skills should be consummate by the time you've finished with the weapons…" And, smiling nastily, he disappeared into the house, leaving Bligh stunned behind him.

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I could tell by the way he stomped into the dining room that Tavington was in a particularly ferocious mood this evening. He shoveled food into his mouth silently, not even deigning to snap at Rutledge's commentary on the latest trends in men's footwear. I could tell it was bad when, rather than protesting vociferously at Rutledge's offer of a post-dinner gavotte in the parlor, he only glanced up ominously and, without a word, continued to eat his chocolate gateau. By the time dinner had ended, Tavington's sole contribution to the conversation remained the churlish "Good evening" he had growled at us upon entering.

The General pushed back his chair and sighed contentedly, rubbing the cherries on his waistcoat idly. "And now, Mr. Rutledge, how about that gavotte? What do you say, Mrs. Tavington? Would you and the Colonel care to oblige us?" He winked at me.

I smiled politely, but Tavington responded far more effectively than I could. In a single, graceful move, he shoved back his chair, rose out of it, spun on his heel, and was out of the room before any of us had time to register it. Rutledge's eyebrows and the corner of his mouth arched upward, and Cornwallis let out a sort of uncomfortable chuckle. They both looked at me.

I froze, completely unsure as to what to do. It was true that Tavington's mood was worsening daily; if this continued much longer, I feared for Rutledge's safety. On the other hand, going after him and talking to him meant breaking the divide I was struggling to maintain. A moment later, before I was fully cognizant, I too had risen out of my chair. "I—um—goodnight, gentleman," I stammered.

"Goodnight, my lady Tavington," drawled Rutledge.

"Sweet dreams!" tittered the General, waggling his fingers at me.

I paused for a moment once I had reached the top of the stairs and took a deep, steadying breath. The tension at dinner had been nearly tangible; there would be no way out of this but a confrontation. I had a sudden and violent wish that my relationship with Tavington could be something other than sporadic altercations interspersed with tense silence, that we could just talk normally—and just as suddenly and violently recanted this wish. What I wanted didn't matter, where Tavington was concerned; I just needed him to be tolerable to live with for the next two months, and then I'd be going home, hopefully.

I walked down the landing to my bedroom and knocked lightly. Receiving no response, I opened the door—but Tavington wasn't there. Odd; I had definitely heard him come upstairs. I looked down the hall and saw a sliver of moonlight reflected on the polished wooden floor at the end of the hall—the door to my sewing room was slightly open. I continued down the hall and quietly opened the door fully.

Tavington was pacing slowly in front of the window. He paused as I entered the room and shut the door, regarding me silently. His icy blue eyes seemed somehow colder in the pale moonlight that shone through the window, and I shivered involuntarily. But he had already turned away from me and resumed his pacing along the wall opposite the door.

I was seriously considering just turning around and leaving when he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I realize we have already addressed this point, but I wonder if you would humor me by clarifying further your political opinions?"

"What?" Whatever I had expected this to be about, it wasn't that. _Rutledge's_ political opinions, my "unladylike" horseback riding, maybe, but he had already made it damn clear he didn't want my own opinions to exist anymore, let alone be expressed.

He sighed impatiently and turned to address me directly, his tone rather more brisk. "Well, madam, I confess myself to be at something of a loss as to why precisely you seem to _enjoy_ the company of—" He paused, clearly with an effort, and said quietly, "I wish to know what it is that makes you believe the rebel cause a valid one."

My first instinct was not to reveal anything potentially incriminating. The way Tavington had been acting recently, I wouldn't put it past him to try to have Rutledge incarcerated, and me along with him; best to play it safe. "I never said I did. And, in any case, you made it perfectly clear that I wasn't to have an opinion on the topic as long as I was married to you."

He passed a hand over his eyes and sighed again, but when he spoke, he sounded much calmer than I expected. "I must ask you to excuse my words on that occasion. I had…concerns…about your loyalties at that juncture, and I wished to ensure that you were not—a rebel spy, or something of the sort. You have proved yourself to be trustworthy, and I realize now that I was perhaps too harsh. I did not intend to imply that you shouldn't have an opinion; I meant merely to request that you not express it openly in defiance of me."

I wasn't sure what to be more shocked at—the concept that Tavington considered me trustworthy, or that he was actually asking me to express my opinion. I recovered quickly, still somewhat on the defensive. "I was serious when I said my parents and I had never considered violent rebellion an option for expressing our grievances."

"And I believed you," said Tavington, somewhat sharply, "but you also said that you believed in every person's right to… 'life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,' I believe the phrase was?" He turned toward me again. "I must say, I found your choice of words interesting. I remarked upon them at the time, and I mention them again now merely because of the _fascinating_ document they belong to."

I froze. He couldn't possibly know that there was a copy of the Declaration in the house—but he probably did know that Rutledge had signed the thing. All the same, I was curious to see where he was going; the maliciousness that had lately dripped from everything he said was curiously absent in this conversation. I settled for a bland, "Oh?"

"Indeed. A little thing signed by that same Continental Congress of which our friend Mr. Rutledge was a member, some four years ago. A list of grievances against His Majesty King George, some rather more offensive than others. I believe they call it…the Declaration of_ Independence_," he said, spitting out the last words as though they tasted foul. "You have read it." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I said. "I have."

"And you found it inspiring?" he said, sounding incredulous. "What in it incited you to desire the removal of these colonies from the protection of the greatest empire the world has ever seen?"

Truth be told, I _did_ find the Declaration inspiring. History buff that I was, I was always inspired by the truth of Thomas Jefferson's words; I got teary-eyed every time I finished watching _1776_. "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," I repeated. "Don't you believe that those should be guaranteed in any sort of government? If you aren't free to try to be happy, can you even call that a life?"

"Admirable sentiments," he said, "but it still seems to me like a rather poetic and roundabout way of inciting the populace to violence. Convince them that they lack something fundamental, and people will of course want it. And it is also hypocritical."

"How so?" I said. Strangely—perhaps because of how composed Tavington still was—I felt at ease, despite the potential this conversation had to lead to dangerous arenas.

"Do you truly believe that any of these men, once in power, will not become precisely that 'tyrant' of a king they are so desperate to escape?" He posed the question lightly, as though there were no possibility whatever that I would disagree.

"Thomas Jefferson," I said.

His lip curled, but to my surprise, he said nothing derogatory. "Yes?"

"If you knew anything about him, you would know that he truly believed in what he wrote. The author of something like the Declaration of Independence does not go back on his word. He truly does think that those three principles are vital, and he truly does believe in democracy, and he won't change his mind about that." I said this so firmly that Tavington, who had been gazing out the window, turned to stare at me.

After a moment's pause, he said quietly, "You know him."

"What? I—no," I said, confused. "No. But I've read the Declaration."

"I fail to understand how you can speak so adamantly about his personal convictions if you've not met the man," he snapped.

How could I possibly explain the effect that eighteen years of 4th of July fireworks and Presidents' Day holidays and trips to see the Washington Monument had had on me? The Declaration of Independence was so fundamentally a part of how I saw myself as an American that I couldn't begin to express it in any way Tavington could understand. I could only shrug hopelessly. "And I can't explain it to you. We were never going to agree on that point anyway." A thought suddenly struck me. "Are you—does this have anything to do with Rutledge?"

He whirled around to face me, eyes narrowed. "What makes you say that?"

"I just—I mean, you must know that he signed the Declaration, and since he's living here…" I was taking a chance, but I was avidly curious as to why he had brought this whole thing up.

The familiar murderous expression Tavington wore whenever contemplating Rutledge crept back onto his face. "Truth be told, madam, I confess that I find myself at a loss as to why you seem to prefer the company of that strutting poppycock to—" He stopped abruptly and turned toward the door.

"Wait!" I said, not believing what he had nearly admitted. Might Tavington possibly be…jealous? Of Rutledge? Because of _me_? "Wait," I said again, and he ceased his pursuit of the door, but did not turn to face me again. "You think I prefer Rutledge to you?"

"Forgive me, madam, but I did not mean to imply—" he began.

"_Don't call me 'madam'!_" I said, rather loudly than I meant to. At least that got his attention; he turned back around toward me. "Call me Kat."

"My apologies, Kat." He almost whispered the words. I felt suddenly uncomfortable and began talking again.

"Sorry, I just—I can't _stand_ being called 'madam'—it makes me feel so old. I mean, I know I'm not _old_, it's just I associate the word with matronly old women, and no one _ever_ called me that until I got married, and I never really expected to be married until I was older anyway, and maybe it would have been okay at that point—" I was dangerously close to babbling. Tavington, thankfully, cut me off.

"How old are you?" I suddenly realized how strange it was that we had not yet discussed this—but we hadn't actually talked much.

"I'm 18, maybe even 19 by now, I haven't really been keeping track of the dates, my birthday's July 23rd—what _is_ the date, anyway?" As always when I was uncomfortable, my speech became rapid and nonsensical.

"July 21st," he said calmly, and took a step toward me. "Allow me to pose a question, then, Kat. _Do_ you prefer Mr. Rutledge to me? No circumlocution, please," he added, clearly anticipating my preferred method of escape—confused babble.

"Well, he actually seems to enjoy my company, and we have conversations without snapping each other's heads off."

Tavington raised an eyebrow at the expression, but appeared to dismiss it. He took another step toward me. "You haven't answered my question."

"No," I whispered, "I don't." And then, afraid of what might happen next if I didn't do something to stop it, I began to talk again, this time at least making the effort to control myself. "I'm—I'm really sorry that we're in this…situation. I mean, I'm sorry that—I'm sorry I slammed the door in your face that time," I finished weakly, having very little idea what I was hoping to accomplish here. Without thinking, I stepped back from him slightly.

His expression changed and something in his manner seemed to harden. But his tone was still mild as he said simply, "These things take time," and left me alone in the room.

I sank into the chair next to the window, utterly bewildered. Whatever had just passed between us had not been what I was expecting; rather than a fight, I had gotten—more confusion. This was exactly why I had been trying to build a wall between myself and Tavington—and now it was gone, completely. The man with whom I had just had an entirely civil conversation could not be the same one they told stories about who killed rebels in cold blood. And the complexity of the situation increased tenfold when I considered home, and Paris. At this point, I had absolutely no idea what I wanted—I still wanted to go home, but to leave these people behind forever would be unbearable. And I felt somehow like the choice was fundamentally between Paris and Tavington, which was ridiculous. The two parts of my life—home and here, now—were so totally irreconcilable that it was useless to try to compare them, though I couldn't stop myself from doing it. That, I suddenly realized, had to be why it had been so easy for me to become Kat here—because it had struck me as odd, even while I was saying it, that I had yelled at Tavington to call me Kat. I had been Jess for 18 years, but that was another life entirely, and I knew subconsciously that I could only survive by keeping them separate.

The question was—who would I choose to be in the end?

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**AN: I hope this chapter answered some of your questions—about the scarf, for one, and perhaps even about our dear friend Mr. Edward Rutledge, who is in fact a real historical figure. (Seriously, watch **_**1776**_**—you'll understand everything.) **


	13. Go Shorty, It's Your Birthday

A blinding light hit my face and I sat upright, blinking, as though an alarm clock had just rung. It took me a moment to register that I was in my sewing room; I had fallen asleep in the chair, head resting on my arms, which in turn were propped on the windowsill. The muscles in my back ached, and my neck was so stiff I could barely move it. I groaned as I stood, stretched—and remembered _why_ I had fallen asleep gazing out over the moonlit fields. First off, I had desperately needed some time to think after last night's interview with Tavington. The more I thought about my two disparate lives, the stronger my desire was to cry—or laugh, I wasn't sure which—hysterically. And then, of course, I had no wish whatever to see Tavington again anytime soon. Not only had he confused me more than ever with his demeanor during our conversation, but I had actually been slightly uncomfortable toward the end of it.

But everything seemed much simpler in the bright July sunshine, and I stood for a moment gazing out over the trees lining the avenue in front of Peartree, considering my plight. It _was_ a confusing situation, but only if I allowed it to be—and the point was moot, since I was going to go home in a couple of months. (Always the optimist, I pushed away the doubtful voice in the corner of my mind that suggested that I might not have any control over when I went home.) So the whole thing with Tavington didn't matter, really, and—just as I had tried to tell myself many times before—all I had to do was survive with him for a couple of months before I could get back home.

Feeling much better about everything, I strode down the hall and into my bedroom, half expecting to find Tavington still there—the sun had only just broken over the trees, it was still early—but there was no sign of him. I felt a slight twinge of disappointment but ignored it. It would be best if I didn't seek out his company, anyway, and I'd see him at dinner. Humming to myself, I got dressed and headed downstairs to breakfast.

Surprisingly, I was the only one there. I had poured myself a cup of tea and was just beginning to ponder what I'd do with myself that day when I heard a light step in the hall, and Rutledge strolled into the room. Impeccably dressed as always, he met me with a bow of the head and a wide smile.

"My dear Mrs. Tavington! I trust you slept well?" He delivered this with a slightly sly air, and I wondered for the hundredth time what precisely he and Cornwallis got up to when the Colonel and I weren't around.

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Rutledge. And you?"

He waved a hand airily. "Oh, fine, fine." He sipped his cup of tea thoughtfully and considered me. "I wonder, Mrs. Tavington, do you draw?"

The question took me by surprise. "Not really. Why?"

"Well, I thought that perhaps, since you don't play an instrument…" He trailed off delicately and I was left to wonder whether or not I was meant to be insulted.

"No, I missed out on the creative gene," I said. Rutledge looked confused. "Oh—I mean, my mother painted occasionally, but…" I suddenly realized that it had been days since I'd thought of my family, and I had to steel myself not to allow my eyes to fill with tears.

Rutledge looked concerned. "I apologize, Mrs. Tavington. I merely wanted to inquire whether you'd like to accompany me out to the garden this morning. I'm something of an artist myself, and the pear trees caught my fancy. Well, obviously—" he chuckled to himself "—or I wouldn't have named my plantation after them."

I smiled politely. "I'd love to come. Maybe I'll just watch you."

"Oh, no, my dear Mrs. Tavington, I cannot permit that! I have plenty of extra supplies." He indicated a pile of paper and small, stubby sticks that must have been pencils.

"All right," I said, sincerely hoping that he wouldn't hold me to any sort of standard.

He beamed. "Brilliant! Perhaps you could draw something for our dear Colonel? A sort of belated wedding present?"

I rolled my eyes while he focused on his bacon. The day I drew a picture for Tavington would be the day he presented me with a self-composed sonnet, and neither was likely to happen anytime soon. I settled into breakfast and prepared myself mentally for a day with Rutledge.

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To my surprise, I actually enjoyed my stint as an artist. It turned out to be more of a lesson than I had expected, with Rutledge instructing me on everything from how to hold the pencil to which colors to use when I painted over it. He himself had painstakingly recreated the pear trees of which he was so enamored, meanwhile exclaiming things like "The fruits, Mrs. Tavington! Just look at them! Aren't they luscious?!" While I didn't share his enthusiasm, I did manage to sketch a passable imitation of a flowerbed and was looking forward to painting it.

We returned to the house in the late afternoon, and I went upstairs to change my dress and wash up—the July sun that had so cheered me that morning became rather brutal as the day wore on. To my surprise, Tavington and Cornwallis were already at the table with Rutledge when I came down to the dining room. To my even greater surprise, they all seemed to be engaged in an intense, whispered discussion. But as soon as they noticed me approaching, they drew apart and stood up.

"Mrs. Tavington!" said Cornwallis happily. "What a pleasure to see you!"

"General," I said, smiling, though I was still lost in thought about what those three could possibly have been discussing.

"Mr. Rutledge tells me that you and he have spent your day producing artwork!" said the General, settling back into his chair. "I must say, I am delighted to hear that you are an artist."

I opened my mouth to defend myself against this charge and just as promptly shut it. Tavington was pulling out my chair for me. "Mrs. Tavington," he said, and bowed me into it with the faintest hint of a smile.

I was stunned. The chivalrous behavior in the house generally came from Rutledge—or perhaps it was simply that we were usually all seated by the time Tavington came in? I managed a tremulous "Thank you" and received a polite nod as Tavington returned to his own seat.

Dinner progressed normally, except that Tavington seemed in an unusually good mood. He entered into the conversation frequently and politely, and only glared outright at Rutledge once, when the latter was talking with gusto about the delights of Philadelphia.

"…and I must say, my dear General, it is entirely deserving of its nickname! The 'City of Brotherly Love'—why, I met the _nicest_ fellows there! There was one gentleman in particular who—" I sneaked a look over at Tavington, who had the familiar combination of incredulity and murderous rage on his face that he so often wore when in conversation with Rutledge, and snorted into my napkin. He looked over at me and his expression became instantly more pleasant; he shot me a small, almost conspiratorial smile and then turned back to his food.

I was utterly baffled. Why was Tavington being so polite, even friendly—to me and to Rutledge, whom he clearly detested? Why this sudden change in temperament? And what in the world had the three of them been whispering about when I came in?

When we had finished dinner, I got up to go into the parlor, only realizing halfway down the hall that I wasn't being followed, though we had all gotten up from our chairs at the same time. Curious, I turned back toward the dining room—if they were having another discussion, I wanted to know what it was about. I peered around the corner into the dining room and saw the three men all huddled together once more.

"…and I'll take care of it, if you'll let the sentries know—ah, Mrs. Tavington!" said Cornwallis, switching from a whisper to his usual booming tone as he spotted me. "Forgive us, we had a bit of business to discuss!"

"What kind—?" I began, but Rutledge interrupted me.

"Never you mind, my dear madam!" he said importantly. "Shall we progress into the parlor for some music?"

I turned to Tavington, hoping for some hint of what was going on. He met my eyes briefly before turning to respond to Rutledge. "Certainly," he said politely.

I was more confused than ever as we sat, listening to Rutledge play a minuet. Every time I glanced over at Cornwallis and Tavington, they were both looking at me. I was getting more nervous by the minute—why was everyone behaving so oddly? Was I being paranoid, or did the "business" they had pertain to me? By the end of the minuet, I couldn't take it anymore. As Rutledge lowered his bow, I stood abruptly.

"Well," I said, producing a huge, fake yawn, "I'm really very tired. I think I'll be going to bed."

All three of my companions stared at me. "My dear lady," said Cornwallis, "it's only 7:30!"

"Yes, well, long day in the hot sun, you know," I said, backing out of the room. "Good night!" I closed the door on their puzzled faces and crept a few steps down the hall, then paused to see if I could hear anything through the door.

Rutledge's voice came through, muffled but discernable. "I hope your wife hasn't been taken ill, Colonel! Well…shall we continue?" And he began a rondeau.

I sighed. Clearly, I wasn't going to hear anything…maybe they suspected that I would be listening outside. If their bizarre behavior continued tomorrow, I would be more covert in my attempts to find information. In the meantime—an actual yawn escaped me, to my surprise—I might as well get some extra sleep.

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As Tavington shaved the next morning, he considered his wife's behavior the evening before. He had been on his best behavior, exuding a cautious degree of charm and very carefully ignoring Rutledge when his pompous frivolity became too much, and yet she had positively fled the parlor. She had obviously noticed that they had all been discussing something—had she realized that the conversation had been about her? Tavington had expected that she would badger him for answers when he came upstairs, but she had been sound asleep. She must have actually been tired; unsurprising, really, when he considered the uncomfortable position she had been in when he had peeked into her sewing room the morning before. She couldn't have been sleeping entirely soundly, however: as he was trying to fall asleep, she had begun emitting noises and then a solitary word, repeatedly. Curious. He resolved to ask her about it if she awoke before he left the house. Perhaps this bit of clarification would enable him to understand her better, and therefore to charm her further, since the usual tactics didn't seem to be working.

He was somewhat startled when he stepped back into the bedroom and saw Kat sit up and stretch, her hair tousled. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning, and many happy returns," he replied.

"What?" she said. "Oh—it's my birthday! Thank you." She smiled at him.

He smiled back, rather stiffly. "Do you feel better?"

Her brow furrowed momentarily and then cleared. "Yes, much, thanks. I was just really tired last night." She pulled her legs out from under the bedcovers and perched on the corner of the bed. "Did you have an enjoyable evening?"

"Naturally." He could not keep the sarcastic tone from his voice entirely, and she grinned.

"Well, I think I'll get dressed," she said, and stood up, running a hand through her hair. She went into the adjoining closet and shut the door behind her. Tavington pulled on his waistcoat and secured his hair in its queue, and by the time he had finished pulling on his boots she was back out in the bedroom. She settled down at the vanity, piling her hair atop her head, and began jabbing pins into it.

Tavington suddenly realized he was staring at her and stopped abruptly. He focused his attention on his waistcoat and began buttoning it, thinking once more of Kat's mutterings in her sleep. Buttoning completed, he turned back to her and said, "May I inquire—how did you find Paris?"

She whirled around, hands dropping from her hair. "How did I find—_Paris_?" She looked almost frightened

"Yes," he said. "I paid a visit there when I was last in England. It really is a charming city, isn't it?"

The alarm had vanished from her face; now she looked simply confused. "Oh—I've never been to France."

"Really?" he said, now somewhat confused himself. "You were talking about Paris last night, in your sleep, and I thought perhaps…"

"Oh," she said, and suddenly blushed violently. "No, I—I guess I was just having a dream about visiting…Paris." She did not quite meet his eye when she said it.

"I see," he said, though he didn't. He stood up and turned toward the door. "I should really be going…I shall see you at dinner. Good day." He walked out quickly, still puzzling over her answer. He resolved to listen for more such sleep-talk in future—something was not quite right.

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Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence, having had an unprecedented day off from sentry duty at Peartree, were there from dawn the following day. According to Lawrence, this was because Colonel Tavington had requested it. "I heard yesterday that they were planning something special at Peartree, and so we're to stay all day."

"Where'd you hear that, eh?" said Bligh irritably. He did not particularly enjoy being forced to arise before dawn to stand in the sun all day.

"Never you mind," said Lawrence haughtily.

Bligh rolled his eyes and stared ahead into the brightening sky. It had only been perhaps an hour since dawn, and already it felt like it was shaping up to be the hottest day of the summer; Lawrence had even dispensed with his scarf. Bligh pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow, then suddenly snapped to attention as the door opened and Tavington marched out.

"Good morning, Lawrence, Bligh," he drawled.

"Sir," they responded in unison.

"I ordered you here early this morning, Lieutenants, so that you would be finished with duty by dinnertime," he said.

"Why, sir?" said Lawrence. Bligh shot him a look, though he was wondering the same thing himself.

"Because, Lawrence, I believe that my wife would appreciate it if you two incompetent louts were at her birthday celebration this evening," growled Tavington. "Though it certainly does not reflect very highly on her taste."

Bligh remained at attention, concealing his surprise at the invitation, but Lawrence clapped happily, ignoring the insult. "Oh, is it Mrs. Tavington's birthday? How delightful! I shall have to find her a gift!"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Tavington. "I expect you both back here at six o'clock, in dress uniform. And bear in mind that this will be a surprise."

"Yes, sir," chorused the lieutenants. Tavington said nothing further, merely strode off the veranda, mounted his horse, and rode off toward the camp. Lawrence immediately turned to Bligh, very nearly bouncing with excitement.

"A surprise party for Mrs. Tavington!" he said jubilantly. "What do you suppose we should get for her? Flowers seem much too common, somehow, but perhaps I could—"

"Why don't you give her that damned scarf?" growled Bligh.

Lawrence looked scandalized. "I couldn't!" he said. "But perhaps if I had had more notice, I could have written Androclus—I'm sure he would have been able to procure—"

"Never mind," said Bligh grumpily, and stumped off to the other side of the veranda.

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I was somewhat less enthusiastic about my drawing than I had been the day before. I couldn't turn down Rutledge's invitation to accompany him into the garden again when I had nothing better to do, but the sun burned down on my head even more brightly than the day before, and my thoughts were far away from the pear trees Rutledge so admired.

Had I just said Paris's name in my sleep last night? I must have; if there had been more than just his name, Tavington would surely have guessed that I was talking about a person instead of a city. And I was sure he wouldn't take kindly to the idea that his wife—even if we weren't married in anything but name—was involved with another man. I didn't want to do anything to disturb the peace we had achieved; I would just have to banish Paris from my thoughts until it was time to go home. I didn't need a conversation any more awkward than the one we had had this morning.

There was still the problem, though, of whatever Tavington, Rutledge, and Cornwallis had been discussing the night before. They couldn't possibly suspect anything about me, could they? If they were suspicious, wouldn't they have just arrested me or something? Not that this thought really made me feel any better.

"Mrs. Tavington?" Rutledge's voice cut into my thoughts.

"Yes," I said, trying not to sound as miserable as I felt. 

"I believe I'll be going inside to dress for dinner," he drawled.

"Yes, good, I'll come in, too," I scrambled to my feet, relieved at the prospect of escaping the vicious heat.

As we entered the house, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and stopped for a moment to rest against the wall of the breakfast room. Rutledge stopped and peered at me concernedly. "Are you all right, Mrs. Tavington?"

"Yes—it's just—so _hot_," I said, fanning myself.

"It is," agreed Rutledge. "Perhaps you would like to go upstairs and lie down for a bit before dinner?"

"I think I will," I said. "Could you make sure someone comes and gets me, though? I don't want to miss dinner." It was, after all, my birthday, though I didn't feel much like celebrating.

Rutledge bowed. "Certainly I shall, madam. Until dinner, then." He exited the room and after a moment, I too made my way slowly upstairs.

It was so strange to be here for my birthday. I should be at home, with my parents and Paris and my friends—people who knew and cared that it was my birthday. I should be saying goodbye to my friends and getting ready to go to Harvard. And instead—I was dying for an air conditioner on a lonely plantation where only one person knew it was my birthday and didn't give a damn. Suddenly, I felt like crying—I collapsed on my bed and did just that.

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I lay on my bed, watching the sky go progressively darker. I had heard voices downstairs, but no one had bothered to come up to fetch me. I was feeling very sorry for myself and had just decided to skip dinner altogether when a knock came at the door. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. "Come in," I said, trying to sound less depressed than I felt. The door opened, and to my surprise, Tavington walked in.

"Good evening," he said pleasantly. "Would you care to join us for dinner?"

"I suppose," I said. He gestured toward the open door. "Oh—um, just a moment," I said. I had already swapped my grungy afternoon dress for the blue silk one I had received on my first night, but my hair was a mess. I sat down at the vanity and pulled out the pins I had stuck in that morning, trying to comb it out with my fingers. But it was hopelessly tangled. "I would _kill_ for a comb," I muttered to myself.

"Would you really?" said Tavington, sounding somewhat interested.

"No," I said, "just an expression. I would really like one, though. My hair's a huge knot." I gave up at the combing and twisted it back up atop my head, jabbing the pins back in. "All right, let's go," I said.

We progressed down the stairs, Tavington behind me. I walked into the dining room and stopped short—gathered around the table were Cornwallis and Rutledge, of course, but also Lawrence and Bligh, who hadn't dined with us since the night of our wedding. I looked around, baffled, at all of their beaming faces, and met Lawrence's eye first. "A very happy birthday to you, Mrs. Tavington!" he said happily. This was echoed by everyone else in the room, including Tavington as he seized my hand to usher me into my chair.

I was dumbfounded. Not only had Tavington remembered my birthday, but he had told everyone about it and, apparently, organized a party for me. I turned to him, still astonished, and he smiled at me. I had been disarmed by that smile before, and this was no different. It was incredible how warm his glacial blue eyes suddenly seemed; his face looked as though a mask had been removed from it. As I lowered myself into the chair, he kissed the hand he was still holding and then released it. It was extremely hard for me to look away, but when I turned back to the table, I saw that everyone was looking expectantly at me. I looked to the head of the table, where the General was holding up a glass of champagne.

"To Mrs. Tavington, on the occasion of her birthday!" he said, and raised the glass.

"Mrs. Tavington!" echoed the rest of the table. I raised my glass as well and took a sip. It was very fine champagne.

I smiled at each of them in turn. "Thank you so much, everyone. You don't know how much it means to me that you remembered my birthday."

I couldn't bring myself to turn back to Tavington just yet, but Rutledge and Lawrence looked pleased, Bligh slightly embarrassed, and Cornwallis boomed out, "Don't thank us, Mrs. Tavington, thank your husband! He took care of the whole thing!" He winked at me.

I turned back to Tavington. "Thank you," I said, and meant it.

"My pleasure," he replied, a hint of a smile still visible about his eyes.

Cornwallis clapped. "Capital, capital! Now—shall we eat?"

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Dinner was scrumptious, and with the cake at dinner there was brandy—and very good brandy it was, too, though I didn't usually drink the stuff. Everyone was in a good mood, and the exuberance of Lawrence and Rutledge combined wasn't enough to annoy Tavington this evening, which I thought was probably a one-time occurrence. Even Bligh was slightly less taciturn than usual, and the General was simply his usual jovial self. When we moved into the parlor after dinner, Rutledge insisted that I sit in the most prominent seat. "Your birthday festivities continue, my lady," he drawled. I saw Tavington shoot him a look, but it was still nowhere near the perpetual glower I was used to.

Obediently, I sat, and Lawrence came forward, pulling a small package out of his waistcoat. The others were all doing the same. Lawrence handed it to me with a smile and gestured for me to unfold it. I opened the heavy cloth to find a pretty, round doily, embellished with flowers and fruits. "It's just a bit of crochet I've been working on," he said modestly.

"It's beautiful!" I exclaimed, and held it up to the light.

Rutledge applauded. "The vegetation's marvelous, Lawrence!" Lawrence beamed.

Bligh stepped forward next and presented me with a rolled up bit of paper. "Happy birthday," he said, and gave me a small smile. I unrolled the paper to find a hand-drawn map of South Carolina, painted and labeled carefully.

"Where did you get this, Lieutenant Bligh?" I asked, incredulous.

"I'm a cartographer. I make maps," said Bligh.

"This is incredible!" I said sincerely. "Thank you so much!"

He nodded silently, gave me another small smile, and returned to his seat. Cornwallis approached me next. "Good thing you're a married woman, Mrs. Tavington, or I couldn't give this to you!" he chortled. I smiled nervously and unfolded the cloth he had handed me. Inside was—a garter belt.

I turned bright red. The General was still chortling, Lawrence and Rutledge were sniggering happily, and Bligh was looking resolutely in the opposite direction. Again, I couldn't bring myself to look at Tavington. "That's very…kind of you, General," I said, willing my face to return to its normal color.

After one more moment of mirth, Rutledge stood up and strode over to hand me another piece of cloth, this one tied with a pink ribbon. It fell open to reveal a solitary lace-edged silk handkerchief. Puzzled, I lifted it out of its packaging. Embroidered in the corner in large, curvy blue letters were the initials "A.H."

"It's lovely, Mr. Rutledge, but my initials aren't A.H.," I said, trying to sound grateful.

"Oh, no, of course not, Mrs. Tavington! The handkerchief was Thomas Jefferson's!" he cried.

"Thomas Jefferson's?" I was still confused. "But why would Thomas Jefferson's handkerchief have A.H. on the corner?"

"Because, my dear, it was originally Alexander Hamilton's!" Rutledge replied.

I was starting to get excited now; I owned a handkerchief that had belonged to both Hamilton and Jefferson—but I still didn't understand. "And how did you get it?"

To my surprise, Rutledge turned rather red himself at this juncture. "Never you mind," he said, "how about some music?" And he picked up his violin and started to play.

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Not until Lawrence and Bligh had left for the camp and we had all retired upstairs did I meet Tavington's eye again. Cornwallis's garter belt aside, I was downright afraid of what would happen if I didn't keep my guard up when the Colonel was being this nice. But when he followed me into the bedroom and said softly, "Kat?", I had no choice but to turn around and face him.

I spoke before he could. "Thank you so much, Colonel, I really appreciate your celebrating my birthday."

"I have something for you as well," he said, and produced another cloth package and handed it to me. I opened it and gasped; inside was a gleaming silver comb, its handle inlaid with tiny shining crystals.

"Where did you get this?" I said. "It's amazing!" I looked up at Tavington.

He didn't quite meet my eye. "I…acquired it recently," he said, and left it at that.

"Well, it's perfect," I said. "Now I won't have to kill anyone." He gave a reluctant chuckle and I looked at him more closely. Where _had_ he gotten the comb? "Colonel," I said slowly, "did you—"

"Allow me," he interrupted, and plucked the comb from my hand. I removed the pins from my hair and shook it out, feeling somewhat awkward. "Sit," he said, gesturing to the vanity, and I sat. He ran the fingers of his left hand through my hair first, then followed with the comb in his right, and I couldn't suppress a small shiver. "Everything all right?" he questioned dryly. I had a feeling he knew exactly what he was doing to my already confused emotions.

I sat quietly for several minutes, and then leapt up. "That's quite enough, Colonel, thank you," I said curtly. "I think I'll go to bed now."

Was it my imagination, or did he look—disappointed? "Certainly," he said.

I went into the closet to change into my pajamas, and when I came out, he was loosening his own hair from its queue, boots and waistcoat already dispensed with. As I climbed into bed, I said, "Really, Colonel, thank you for the comb. Where did you get it?"

"Never mind," he said brusquely.

I shrugged. I wasn't going to worry about it for the moment. It was sweet of him to get it for me, even if it had—I swallowed hard—belonged to someone who was now deceased, as I strongly suspected. I pushed this thought out of my mind and, contented at last, went to sleep.

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	14. Comin' on Strong, Sixpack Showin'

Colonel Tavington was pretty damn pleased with himself. He had even allowed himself the frivolity of humming as he shaved that morning, so satisfied was he with the way yesterday had turned out. His wife had lapped it all up; the comb, he thought, had been a particularly good touch, and the way he had actually brushed her hair! A stroke of genius, if he did say so himself. Perhaps Kat was less easily impressed than other women, but she was still female and, therefore, susceptible to his charm. A few more evenings like this, and he would be well on the way to producing an heir!

He strode through the camp, a spring in his step, and quite cheerfully told off two hapless privates with very dirty sabres, leaving them quivering in his wake. Served them right, the gumptionless nincompoops. Not even the prospect of shooting practice with his Dragoons on what promised to be the hottest day of the summer could dampen his good spirits. No, things were most decidedly looking up, in more ways than one. Though he _did_ wonder why she kept muttering about Paris, if she'd never been there.

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I was in a wonderful mood the next morning. It was extremely comforting to know that everyone I had come to care about here appreciated me—and Tavington had simply astounded me. I suppressed an urge to shiver every time I remembered him combing my hair; there had been something very intimate about the situation, but it wasn't at all unpleasant. As a matter of fact, I quite liked this new side of Tavington; his being friendly made it much easier for me to deal with the situation, though I was still slightly wary about why he had suddenly turned on the charm.

I wandered outside toward the stables after breakfast. Rutledge had elected to remain in the garden and finish his painting, though I supposed he couldn't actually technically leave the house to come on a ride with me anyway—the way he and Cornwallis got on, it was easy to forget that Rutledge was under house arrest. I waved off his invitation and his protests that it was much too hot for a ride; I wanted to explore a bit, to escape the confines of the plantation. Unfortunately, the only animal in the stables when I reached them was a small white pony—the Dragoons must have taken the horses for riding practice, as they sometimes did. I wasn't concerned; I figured I would have heard if there were an actual skirmish. And Lawrence always spoke very highly of this particular pony, so I decided to take him. I soon realized he was in no hurry—but then, neither was I. We sauntered about Peartree's grounds, enjoying the scenery until the sun became too much for me, and then I urged him into the shelter of the trees. He was clearly glad to be in the shade, and he picked his way steadily west through the woods.

After an hour or so, I decided I should probably halt; not only was the pony obviously hot, but I had no desire to get myself lost in the woods. I pulled him to a stop next to a shallow stream, and he immediately began to drink. Sliding off his back, I too was about to have a drink of water when I heard a gunshot. I jumped about five feet in the air and clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. Listening intently, I peered into the trees to see if I could spot the source of the noise, but I didn't see anything. A few seconds later, another solitary shot rang out. This definitely wasn't a battle—what was going on? I gathered the pony's reins in my hand and crept cautiously toward the place where the sound had come from, curiosity overtaking my better judgment.

After a couple minutes of creeping silently through the brush, I was about to give up on my little adventure and turn back when I heard a very familiar voice ring out through the trees. "_Lawrence_! It is beyond my power to imagine _why_ you would be wearing that scarf when it is this stiflingly hot out, but you are making me more uncomfortable merely looking at you! Dispose of it!" What in the world were Tavington and Lawrence doing out in the woods together? Tying my pony's reins to a nearby tree, I walked more quickly toward what I now recognized as multiple voices. Finally, I glimpsed a bright flash of red through the trees and, crouching behind a bush, identified Lawrence's telltale scarf, now draped around the neck of his horse, which was looking balefully at the proceedings in front of him. Still securely hidden behind the bush, I followed the horse's gaze.

In a circle stood what appeared to be the entire regiment of the Green Dragoons. I picked out Lawrence, looking somewhat peculiar without the habitual scarf, fanning himself futilely with his helmet. Towering over him was Bligh, looking scruffy and miserable in the heat. All of the Dragoons were focused intently on Tavington, who stood at the center of the circle.

"…and these new tactics mean that we too shall have to adopt new methods in our warfare," he was saying. "I will not allow these filthy rebels that call themselves a militia to believe themselves triumphant over the finest cavalry in the world, no matter how 'ghostly' a leader they are purported to have. If they will not fight like a proper army, we shall simply have to prove ourselves superior in every aspect of warfare. This means, therefore, that in addition to learning to shoot more quickly and more accurately, every second of your time that is not devoted to other duties will be spent in mock swordplay. Your weapons will be polished and pristine every time I ask to see them, and you will learn how to use them properly if you do not already know. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" rang out from the circle around him, and I felt a surge of terror for the rebels that Tavington's troops would soon be taking on. Before I had time to contemplate this, however, an officer in a dark blue uniform I didn't recognize stepped into the circle to stand next to Tavington.

"You vill practice ze tactics zat ze Colonel and I vill teach you," he said in a booming, heavily accented voice. "I do not vant to see anysing less zan perfection! You vill please now line up in two lines. Remoof all unessential closing," he added as an afterthought. "Ve do not vant anyvon fainting in zis heat."

"You heard what the Baron said," Tavington barked. "Now!"

The Dragoons scattered obediently, shedding clothing as they reorganized themselves. I now had a clear view of the Baron, whoever he was. Several years older than Tavington, he was on the short side and not precisely handsome, but his face was full of character and pride, and his pristine uniform indicated that his title came with money. I looked back to the Dragoons and saw that Lawrence had removed his waistcoat to reveal an uncommonly tight undershirt. To his left, Bligh looked rather happier now that he too had removed his heavy jacket, but I now saw something around his waist that looked like—if I hadn't known better, I would have thought it was a fanny pack, but obviously that was out of the question. I turned my eyes back toward the Baron to examine him further when my attention was caught by Tavington.

He was removing his shirt. Upon consideration, I supposed it was rather odd that, in our month of marriage, I had not seen him wearing less clothing than the pants and shirt he always slept in; but I suddenly realized that that was probably a very good thing if I was ever going to enact my plan to leave. The man was sex on legs. His arms and shoulders were heavily muscled without being intimidating, and I wondered vaguely how one acquired a six-pack in an age where sit-ups were not yet a popular phenomenon. He leaned down to pick up his pistol from the ground where it lay, and I suddenly realized just how tight his uniform pants were. With some difficulty, I wrenched my eyes back up to his face and focused on what he was saying.

"I have seen what most of you believe is an acceptable way to fire a pistol. I assure you that if you flourish the weapon unnecessarily as you raise it after loading—" here he shot a look at Bligh, who looked abashed "—you will provide the enemy with an opportunity to get his shot in first. Therefore, I shall demonstrate a truly efficient loading while the Baron explains." I had pulled myself together sufficiently to remember that he was describing ways to kill American revolutionaries but couldn't quite manage to stop watching the lesson. After all, it couldn't hurt to learn a bit about pistols, could it? I already knew how to shoot a rifle, obviously, but my dad had never let me near other types of guns.

The Baron began to speak. "Efficiency! Zis is ze most important! _EXTREM WICHTIG_!" he yelled, pointing at Bligh, who looked startled and mildly confused. "You see how ze Colonel is moving—vis deliberate efficiency!" Indeed, Tavington did seem completely focused on the task at hand. He coolly bit off the casing and jammed the bullet into the barrel of his weapon and, fully loaded, brought his arm up and around to point the gun almost directly at me. A tiny yelp escaped me and I scurried to my right, flattening myself to the ground just in case he did decide to fire. "_Muzzle management_," growled the Baron, "zat is vat ve are tryink to achieve. Management of ze muzzles." I saw Lawrence nod enthusiastically. Unfortunately for him, so did the Baron.

"You!" he barked, pointing at Lawrence. "Come here!" Lawrence sidled out of his place in line and stood between Tavington and the Baron. "I vant you to try vat ze Colonel has just demonstrated."

Lawrence smiled nervously and pulled out his own pistol, loading it with rather less purposeful intent than Tavington had. The Baron, however, seemed pleased. "_Ja_,_ ja_," he said as Lawrence loaded the weapon, "_lecker_." Lawrence looked confusedly around at Tavington, who was glaring at him, and then turned back to the Baron. "_Extrem wichtig_," said the Baron, nodding wisely at Lawrence.

I had seen enough. It was not a good idea for me to hang around Tavington when he was sweaty and shirtless, and if I stayed where I was, I might very well be shot accidentally. I straightened up to creep back to my pony and shot one last look at the Dragoons over my shoulder. Tavington's pistol was pointed straight at me—time to go. I ran back to the pony and spurred him on toward Peartree as quickly as he was willing to move.

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Having just been drilled in all possible uses of weaponry, Bligh and Lawrence took their time returning to camp, straggling behind the rest of the Dragoons.

"I say, it's really quite warm out!" said Lawrence. "However do you suppose that Baron fellow managed to keep his overcoat on?"

"He really knows his stuff, though, eh?" said Bligh, who had quite liked the Baron. "Muzzle management and all that. Good lesson, I thought."

"Certainly it was," replied Lawrence, "but what I didn't understand was why he kept saying '_lecker_.' Of course, my German's never been terribly good—I mean, Androclus and I weren't up in the bell tower practicing _German_ all day, were we?—but really, I don't see where the Baron gets off talking like that. _I _didn't see any baked goods."

Bligh, whose German was rather better than his companions, had understood the Baron's constant mutterings, but wisely said nothing to enlighten Lawrence. He'd be better off not knowing. They rode on in silence for a few minutes, but as they reached the edge of the camp, they were greeted by the man himself.

"Lieutenants!" boomed the Baron. "Ve haff not been properly introduced. I am Major Baron Hans Dieter Wolfgang von Pilsner."

"Lieutenant James T. Lawrence at your service," said Lawrence rather haughtily.

"Bligh," said Bligh.

"I am fery pleased to meet you bos," said the Baron with a gruff bow. "Now tell me, Lawrence, vere did you get zis _wunderbar_ manner of holding your pistol?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Lawrence, clearly flattered. "Just practice, I suppose—I've been handling weaponry for as long as I can remember."

"_Ja_, _ja_," the Baron said. "I vunder—vould you be my _Mitbewohnerin_?"

Bligh coughed rather loudly to cover a laugh; Lawrence merely looked confused. "I'm afraid I don't—"

"_Ja_, I understahnd," said the Baron, somewhat sadly. "_Lecker_."

And with that, he walked away, leaving Bligh amused and Lawrence clearly still mystified. "I simply cannot understand—_what_ is so tasty?!"

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When I got back to Peartree, it was midafternoon; I pleaded a headache so I could seek the pleasant dim solitude of my bedroom without offending Rutledge. I could not believe what I had seen this morning. I had thought Tavington had turned over a new leaf because of his behavior the day before, and here he was teaching his men to kill more "efficiently"! I focused on this thought, not allowing myself to consider just how attracted I was to Tavington. The charming thoughtfulness of last night was gone, replaced by brutal intensity—no matter how attractive I found him physically, I could not forget what his job was.

Though—another voice in my head kicked in before I could stifle it—it _was_ just that, his job. And part of that job was to prevent himself and his men from being killed, which was exactly what that training session today had been about. And he really had been so sweet yesterday—clearly he had a good side—and of course, there was the sex appeal…

"No!" I said aloud, startling myself. I had half a mind to run away now, before everyone appeared for dinner, to try to get home or just away from this situation—but now wasn't the time. I didn't have my plan in order yet. And voices had just begun to waft up from the hallway. I just couldn't allow Tavington to get under my emotional guard again, that was all; and as for the physical bit, well—I would just have to avoid looking at him whenever possible. Steeling myself, I headed down to dinner.

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Tavington returned to Peartree in the evening nearly as happy as he had been when leaving it that morning. It had, of course, been an annoyance the way the Baron had simply taken over the lesson with all of his speeches about muzzle management and the like; but Tavington could overlook that. One had to make allowances—the fellow had a clear inferiority complex because he wasn't Hessian. And in any case, the Baron's obvious admiration for Lawrence was amusing, not least because the lieutenant clearly had no idea that his skills with weaponry were esteemed in any quarter.

Tavington was mildly surprised to see O'Hara and the Baron in the dining room when he entered it for dinner, but it only made sense that Cornwallis would invite their visiting expert to dine. He was rather more surprised to see that his wife was absent.

"Colonel Tavington! Welcome!" said Cornwallis. "You know my guest the Baron, of course."

Tavington nodded. "An honor that you could join us, Baron."

"Ze honor is all mine," said the Baron gruffly, taking a sip of his wine.

"I was just telling everyone, Colonel, that Mrs. Tavington had quite a bad headache this afternoon," said Rutledge. "She said to expect her for dinner, however."

Tavington made a non-committal noise. He had rather expected her to be waiting to welcome him home. After a moment, however, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and she appeared in the room. "Good evening," she said, smiling at Rutledge, Cornwallis, and O'Hara, but not looking at him.

"Mrs. Tavington, may I present Major Baron Hans…" Cornwallis gave the Baron a supplicating glance.

"Hans Dieter Wolfgang von Pilsner," supplied the Baron.

"Yes, that," said Cornwallis.

A momentary frown creased Kat's brow, but just as quickly it had been replaced by a smile. "Delighted to meet you, sir."

"It is a pleasure, madam. Please name me Günther," he said, issuing her into her seat.

"Pleased to meet you, then, Günther." She smiled at him again but still would not meet Tavington's eye.

He could feel his good mood evaporating as the meal went on and Kat still refused to acknowledge his presence. She was unusually quiet, focusing her attention on her food and hardly participating in the conversation. Even more unusually, when dinner was finished and the time came to retire to the parlor for more of Rutledge showing off his damn violin, she begged to be excused on account of her headache and had fled upstairs almost before Tavington had time to register her departure.

"Mrs. Tavington seems to be suffering from an unusually bad headache, Colonel!" chuckled Cornwallis. "I wonder if perhaps you couldn't help her rid herself of it!"

Everyone else in the room sniggered, but Tavington was unamused. "Perhaps you're right, Milord," he said, attempting to keep the annoyance out of his tone. "Might I be forgiven if I too were to miss the evening's festivities?"

Cornwallis's eyebrows drew closer together as he frowned. "Rutledge?"

"Oh, don't bother about me!" said Rutledge airily. "Mrs. Tavington's health is of course much more important. I can divert you another evening."

Tavington nodded curtly and fled the room. As he climbed the stairs, he wondered how he could best resume his progress with Kat—perhaps comb her hair again, and then see what happened—but when he entered the bedroom, she was already climbing into bed.

He adopted a modicum of concern in his voice. "Are you quite all right?"

"Yes," she replied, turning to face away from the door.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" His voice dropped suggestively, but the hint was lost on her.

"No."

Tavington cursed under his breath as he walked toward the closet to don the old shirt he usually slept in. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he halted and turned back toward the bed. As he did so, he caught Kat watching him, but she quickly feigned sleep. "Forgive me," he said, and her eyes sprang open once more, "but as it is uncommonly warm out, I wonder if you would permit me to make myself comfortable?"

"Um…sure," she said, looking rather nervous before closing her eyes once more.

Making certain that he was within her direct line of sight, Tavington removed his waistcoat and boots before also divesting himself of his shirt. He thought he saw her eyes glint beneath her eyelashes as he turned fully toward her once more.

"I am sure I shall sleep quite well now," he purred. "Thank you."

"Mmhmm," she squeaked, then turned over so her back was toward him. Tavington smiled to himself as he settled down on the floor; he knew exactly why she was uncomfortable.

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	15. Chivalry Is Dead But

_August 1780_

More than a week had passed since I had seen the shooting lesson and panicked about my relationship with Tavington. I had maintained my distance from him through a strict regime of monosyllables and no eye contact, though sometimes I couldn't stop myself from sneaking a peek at him if I knew he wasn't looking. It was really something of a battle of wills: it seemed that he was testing his powers of seduction against my determination not to get attached. But I was winning, and as the days wore on, his charm reverted into churlishness once more. He gradually abandoned his attempts to urge me into conversation and began instead to ignore me, much the way he had when we were first married. He no longer tried to approach me physically, either; there were no longer any offers to brush my hair or anything of the sort, though he still slept shirtless.

This all made life much easier for me. I reminded myself constantly that I was here only until I could figure out how to get home—home to my family and my future and, yes, Paris. Getting emotionally involved with Tavington would be a huge mistake. It wasn't like it would be the long-distance relationship Paris was so dreading back when I first got accepted to Harvard: it would stop, completely and forever, the second I left my life here. The rings on my hands seemed somehow heavier these days, but still I couldn't bear to take either one off. I couldn't stand to lose my sole reminder of Paris—and, whatever our relationship was, I had to admit that Tavington was important to me too.

Otherwise, life at Peartree continued much as it had for some time. Bligh and Lawrence still had frequent sentry duty; General Cornwallis, though taken with increasing fits of seriousness, was usually still his merry self; and Rutledge—well, actually, Rutledge was behaving rather oddly. He was closeted in his study for hours at a time—writing letters, as far as I could tell, but he seemed even more enthusiastic about life than usual, and every time Lawrence arrived at Peartree, the two of them would disappear for some time. When they returned, they always looked quite pleased with themselves. I couldn't figure out what they were up to, but the answer emerged a few days later.

When I came downstairs that morning, I noticed an unusual flurry of activity. An array of people I didn't recognize were milling about Peartree—primarily in soldiers' uniforms, but there also seemed to be a variety of civilians. All of them were either cleaning or bustling about the house carrying everything from floral arrangements to dead chickens. I hurried down the hall to the breakfast room.

Cornwallis wasn't there when I arrived, but Rutledge was. "What in the world is going on?" I said, as a private carrying a towering pile of napkins crept cautiously down the hall.

Rutledge smiled superciliously. "Isn't it obvious, my dear Mrs. Tavington? We're having a ball."

"A _ball_? At Peartree?!" I sank into a chair and stared at Rutledge.

"Yes, a ball! Ladies and gentlemen of high society, dining and dancing and making merry…a ball, my dear lady, a ball!"

I thought, absurdly, of my senior ball. It was hardly likely that this event would feature copious amounts of Ludacris and the Black-Eyed Peas, but that was the best point of reference I had. As I recalled my senior ball—it felt like years ago, ironically—a thought occurred to me. "A dress! I need a dress!"

Rutledge laughed lightly and took a sip of tea, pinky finger pointed resolutely outward. "But you _have_ a dress, Mrs. Tavington."

"I do?" I thought briefly of the scarlet silk dress that had caused Tavington to insinuate that I was a prostitute on my second day here.

"I took the liberty of having your dress sent to town so it would be finished in time," said Rutledge. When I looked blankly back at him, he clarified. "The dress you were sewing, Mrs. Tavington, the cerulean taffeta with the lace trim."

"Oh," I said, and then, "thank you. So when is this ball?"

"Tomorrow!" he said gaily.

"Tomorrow? Does Tav—does Colonel Tavington know about this?"

Rutledge's smile faded slightly. "I don't believe he does, no. General Lord Cornwallis has given us the go-ahead, however, and—"

"Us?"

"Myself and Lieutenant Lawrence, yes. We have been planning this for some time."

"Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped!"

Rutledge looked scandalized. "Helped? But my dear Mrs. Tavington, it was meant to be a surprise!"

"Oh." I didn't quite understand why he was telling me now if it was supposed to be a surprise, but I was starting to get kind of excited. I gazed out toward the hall, where a scullery maid could now be seen sweeping as a tall corporal staggered past, back bent with the weight of several sacks of potatoes. "If the ball is going to be held outside, then why is everyone cleaning?"

Apparently, I had succeeded in scandalizing Rutledge more still. "My lady, the ball will not be held outside! We shall have the gardens open, of course, for our guests to explore; but dinner and dancing will be inside, in the ballroom!"

"There's a ballroom? Here?" I had explored the house thoroughly, I thought, but though it was expansive, there was no room that I'd seen that was large enough to qualify as a ballroom. For a moment I thought Rutledge was going to keel over from shock at my ignorance, but instead he shook his head, stood, and extended an arm to me.

He led me down the hall back toward the front of the house, then veered off through a doorway just under the sweeping front staircase. Every time I had tried this particular door, it had been locked, but now it opened easily. We stepped through into a high-ceilinged room with cream-colored walls and a polished parquet floor that several kitchen boys were scrubbing busily. The room was quite large, with tall windows and a door on one end that opened into a part of the gardens I didn't usually go into. "It's lovely," I said, gazing up at the sparkling chandelier and wondering how, even amidst the sprawling grandeur of Peartree, I had missed a room this large.

Rutledge beamed. "Thank you, madam! Now, if you don't mind, there are some last-minute items I really must see Lawrence about. If you'll excuse me?" I nodded and he bustled off, leaving me alone to imagine what my first real ball would be like.

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Lieutenant Bligh stood alone on the veranda, not even bothering to curse Lawrence for leaving him alone on sentry duty—again—to go off and make plans for this bloody ball with Rutledge. It had become routine: for the last several weeks, ever since they had hatched their plan, the two of them had disappeared for hours on end, leaving Bligh to defend Peartree from threats—which, fortunately for him, were thin on the ground. He yawned hugely and swatted away a fly with a large hand, then straightened up as the front door opened and Lawrence came bounding out.

"What took you so long, eh?" said Bligh irritably.

Lawrence looked slightly puzzled for a moment but quickly recovered. "Edward and I were just going over the floral arrangements for tomorrow evening!" Bligh rolled his eyes. "You may scoff, Bligh, but details like that can make the difference between a mediocre ball and an exceptional one!"

"Pardon me," said Bligh grudgingly, with a trace of sarcasm that was completely lost on his companion. Before Lawrence could respond, however, the lieutenants heard the hooves of a single horse galloping up the avenue toward the house. As the horse approached the veranda, Bligh recognized the Baron von Pilsner.

"Oh, _no_, not this fellow again!" whispered Lawrence. "I did hope we'd be rid of him before the ball…"

Bligh shot him a withering look but didn't have time to respond before the Baron had dismounted and approached them.

"Lieutenants," he said, and bowed. Lawrence smiled nervously. "I haff heard zat zere vill be a ball tomorrow evenink here," the Baron continued. "Is zis true?"

Bligh nodded grimly, but it was Lawrence who responded. "Yes, we've planned a lovely evening. Will you be joining us, Baron?"

"_Ja_," said the Baron, "_lecker_."

"Oh—good," said Lawrence, obviously flustered. There was a moment of silence, which Lawrence attempted to fill. "Erm…have you heard the one about the Pr—ahem, that is, the—ah—where are you from, Baron?"

"Please name me Günther," said the Baron.

"Oh—yes, certainly, Günther—but are you—do you come from Prussia?" stammered Lawrence.

"_Ja_," said the Baron.

Lawrence looked extremely uncomfortable. "You were saying, Lawrence?" said Bligh amiably.

"Oh, I don't believe I was saying anything," Lawrence replied, glowering at his friend.

"No, I think you were about to share one of your marvelous jokes?" said Bligh.

The Baron seemed interested. "Ah, _ja_, I love zese comic stories!"

Lawrence looked more uncomfortable than ever. "Yes, of course—so—an _Austrian_ and his horse walk into a bar—"

To Bligh's surprise, the Baron began laughing very hard. "Ah, yes, I know zis joke!" he gasped. "Zis is fery fery comic!"

"Oh—well—I haven't finished it yet," said Lawrence, but the Baron waved him off.

"_Ja_, zis is all right," he said, still chuckling. "_Lecker_."

Lawrence cleared his throat. "Günther," he said tentatively, "I'm sorry, but we haven't got any baked goods."

The Baron roared with laughter once more and moved toward the front door. "I must be going to speak vis Herr Rutledge," he said. " 'Baked goods'…ah, Lawrence, you are fery comic! _Lecker_…" And he disappeared into the house, leaving Bligh shaking with silent laughter behind him.

Lawrence whirled to face his companion. "I don't know what you're laughing about!" he said, irritated. "We _haven't_ got any baked goods, and I wish he'd stop insinuating that we do! It makes me hungry!" He stomped off to the other side of the veranda, glaring at Bligh.

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I would have spent my day in the garden reading, but I couldn't handle the bustle of what seemed like dozens of people rushing about moving, cleaning, and preparing for the ball the next night, so instead I settled in my little sewing room. I did wonder how I hadn't spotted any of the preparations sooner—but then, if it was meant to be a surprise, I supposed it made sense. The copy of _The Taming of the Shrew_ that Rutledge had leant me wasn't holding my attention; I kept pausing to wonder what Tavington's reaction would be when he found out there was a ball. I could imagine it wouldn't be terribly pleasant, especially considering his mood the last few days, and I wasn't eager to see him at dinner that evening.

Unfortunately for me, I didn't even have to wait until dinner. A couple hours before the time we usually convened in the dining room, the door to the sewing room burst open without even a knock and Tavington strode in, looking ready for a fight, and slammed it behind him.

I was on my feet in an instant. "What, you don't bother knocking anymore?"

"Was I interrupting something?" he snapped, glancing at the book I had dropped into my chair.

"No, but—it's not exactly polite just to burst in like that," I said, somewhat annoyed.

"And what precisely do you believe gives you the right to lecture me on manners?" he snarled.

I assumed an air of indifference. "Is there a problem, Colonel?"

He ignored me and strode over to my chair, snatching up the book. "_The Taming of the Shrew_…hmph," he scoffed. "An interesting concept, is it not, that a woman so full of arrogance and self-righteousness could be made to respect her husband as she should, and even to…love him? But that is, I think, why they call it _fiction_." He threw the book back down and turned to face me.

I refused to rise to the bait. "Are you trying to imply something?" I said mildly.

"I have learned not to imply anything with you, madam, as it rarely has the desired effect," he spat.

Oh, so we were back to the 'madam,' were we? "Well, then, just tell me what the issue is," I said, none too kindly.

He turned his back to me and gazed out the window for a few seconds, breathing heavily. I sighed and was about to leave the room when he whirled back toward me. "Why did you not tell me about this ball of Rutledge's?" he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"_Tell_ you about it? I just found out today myself!" I said indignantly.

He snorted. "Today, madam? I find that rather difficult to believe…even someone as unobservant as you are must have noticed that Rutledge has been occupied daily making preparations for this—_delightful_ event we are to have the pleasure of attending."

"He was in his study all day, writing letters!" I snapped back. "How was I supposed to know what they were about?" He narrowed his eyes and was about to respond, but I preempted him. "Anyway, even if I _had_ known, why would it have made any difference whether or not I told you before today?"

"Because I could have exempted myself!" he said, voice rising. "I take no pleasure in a ball, and I would much rather be doing something useful to end this war!"

"Well, then, why don't you just go do that?" I retorted. "I'm sure Rutledge won't miss you!"

"Unfortunately, madam, General Lord Cornwallis has ordered that you and I be in attendance," he growled. "No doubt he wants us to have a proper debut in society as man and wife." He pronounced the last words with a grimace, looking determinedly past me. "He is so enthusiastic at the prospect, as a matter of fact, that he gave me leave to return early to Peartree today so that I could have the—_pleasure_—of seeing the preparations for the event."

He turned his cold blue eyes on me once more, and I froze. How was it possible that I saw something redeeming, even attractive, in him now, when he was attacking me? I pulled myself together with difficulty and said, as calmly as I could manage, "I intend to enjoy myself tomorrow night, Colonel, and I will not allow you to stop me." I turned and flounced toward the door, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back toward him roughly.

"You—will not—_allow_—me?" he breathed. "Let me make something clear to you, madam. It is I, not you, who make the rules in this glorious married state we occupy. I have put up with your absurd requests and your tempers, and I have asked nothing in return. You are in no position to make demands. The time may come—perhaps sooner than you imagine—when I will elect to exercise certain rights—and I will not _allow_ you to stop me." His eyes were cold, his expression challenging, but I didn't quaver.

"Don't threaten me," I snarled. I wrenched my wrist out of his grasp and slapped him across the face as hard as I could with my free hand, then rushed out of the room and down the hall to my bedroom. I locked the door behind me, breathing heavily, and, throwing myself across the bed, began to cry.

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Colonel Tavington was silent all through dinner, looking at no one and concentrating on his food. His wife had not come down to dine; even when Rutledge had gone up to try to induce her, she had refused, apparently claiming to be ill. Tavington knew what this was about, of course. He hadn't meant to be quite so aggressive this afternoon, but really, if the woman wouldn't respond to any other tactic, why not try force? It was maddening, the way she rejected everything he tried; he had thought he had some leverage with her after her birthday, and then she'd made herself more distant than ever. Tavington couldn't understand why, but that was less frustrating, still, than the fact that he was bothered by it. Quite apart from wanting an heir, he still—even now, after her resolute avoidance of him and that display this afternoon—cared for her. But that could not continue. He would not allow himself to be manipulated by a woman who continually rebuffed every advance he made.

The more he thought about it, the more angry he became. She had no right to demand anything from him, after the humiliating position he had allowed himself to be put into since their marriage. If anyone ever suspected the peculiar nature of their relations, his credibility would be undermined; how could anyone respect the command of a man who could not control his own wife? No, the situation could not continue, and he would make her understand that. And if she _ever_ tried to hit him again…

Tavington set into his pudding with a vengeance and, draining his brandy in a single gulp, stood up. He turned to Cornwallis, prepared to make his apologies, but Cornwallis waved him off. "I quite understand, my dear fellow, your wife needs you." Tavington gave him a brief nod and exited the room without looking at either Rutledge or the Baron, who was again dining at Peartree.

He paused and breathed in deeply once he gained the top of the stairs. It would not do to be quite so antagonistic toward her this time; the thing to do was to charm her into thinking all was forgiven, and then, once he had her under control again, he would make it quite clear that he was in command. He rapped lightly on the bedroom door, then turned the handle without waiting for a response.

The door did not open.

He knocked again, louder. "Kat?" he said softly, hoping that the use of her name would induce her to unlock the door.

"Go away." Her voice sounded muffled. Had she been crying? This thought softened him slightly, but then he realized that women's tears were rarely anything more than a manipulative tactic. He would not be so deluded.

"Unlock the door," he said firmly. There was no response. He bent down and peered into the keyhole, but she had left the key in it and he could see nothing. He rattled the handle once more, but the door remained unyielding.

"I'm not opening the door," she said, and sniffed. "Just—go away. Please?"

"I will not," he said, and took a deep breath. There was only one way in that he could see, and it was extremely distasteful to him, but— "I would like to apologize for what I said to you earlier," he said before he could change his mind. She said nothing, but he heard a deep sigh and a rustling noise as she evidently settled down onto the floor next to the door. "It was not my intention to hurt you," he continued with some difficulty, and stopped: this was painful enough for him as it was, and he wasn't going to say any more than was absolutely necessary.

"Do you mean that?" she said after a moment. "Because I think you're just trying to get on my good side again."

"Of course I mean it," he spat. Could this woman possibly be any more difficult?

"Well, I think I should tell you that I'm not sorry," she said. "You deserved to be slapped and I would do it again in a heartbeat."

Tavington had had enough. "Open the door."

"No."

"_Open the door_."

"I'm not going to," she said, "so stop asking."

It was all he could do not to try to bring down the door by force, but he remembered that Cornwallis and company were downstairs. "You will regret this," he hissed.

"I doubt that, Colonel," she said, and another rustle told him that she had stood up once more. "Good night."

Tavington cursed, rather louder than he meant to. He needed to do something physical, immediately, to rid himself of his aggression. He thundered down the steps and through the front hall, out onto the veranda, and leapt onto his horse, ignoring the quizzical looks of the sentries. Twenty minutes later he was back at camp, perched astride a cannon, cleaning vigorously.

It was going to be a long night.

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	16. Errbody Wanna Ball

I awoke rather late the next morning. I had stayed up half the night feeling murderous rage at Tavington for treating me the way he had. But then—maybe he was actually frustrated because I kept pushing him away; from what I could tell, he had not been overburdened with affection in his early life. By the time I woke up, I had forgiven him completely, for no logical reason that I could spot. I felt infinitely better now, about Tavington and about life in general. I dodged all of the people cleaning as I came downstairs—there were even more today than yesterday, if that were possible—and poked my head into the breakfast room, but there was no one there, probably because it was so late. So I elected to go visit Bligh and Lawrence instead.

As I opened the front door, a peal of laughter met my ears. "Oh, Sir _Henry_! That's even better than the one about the Prussian with the game leg!" I stepped out onto the veranda and saw Lawrence, chuckling merrily with a tall officer in a naval uniform. My eyes swept downwards to the officer's feet—he was wearing short boots and—were those tube socks?!

But before I had time to consider this, I noticed Bligh. He was standing, arms folded, turned partially away from the pair. "Good morning," he said to me, rather grumpily.

Lawrence whirled about to face me when he heard Bligh speak. "Oh, Mrs. Tavington! I was so hoping you'd be down to visit us! But," he said, a look of concern clouding his face, "are you feeling better? Edward told me you weren't well yesterday evening."

"I'm fine," I said, sincerely hoping no one had guessed the precise nature of my "illness."

Lawrence beamed. "Lovely! We were so afraid you'd be ill for the ball. Ensign Milner—" he indicated his companion "—was hoping to beg the honor of your hand for a dance this evening!"

I smiled at Ensign Milner. "Nice to meet you, Ensign," I said.

He nodded awkwardly, shooting a glance at Bligh, who had been glaring at him but looked quickly forward again. "Erm…please call me Sir Henry."

I sighed inwardly. What was it with these people? The Baron requested that I "name him Günther," this ensign wanted me to call him Sir Henry for no apparent reason—the next thing I knew, Rutledge would be asking me to call him Neddy. "Sure, why not," I said, realizing retroactively that this was an odd response for a lady of the period, but only Lawrence seemed to have noticed anything. Bligh and Sir Henry were glaring furtively at each other once more, but both snapped out of it when I spoke again. "What brings you here, Sir Henry?"

"Well, Lawrence and I were…schoolfellows…at Eton," he began, ignoring a contemptuous sniff from Bligh. "I spent a year at Oxford, and then I realized that I wanted to take a year out, see the world…so I joined the Royal Navy. I come from a long naval family, you know." He puffed out his chest; clearly I was supposed to have heard of his family. Apparently satisfied that my blank look was an acknowledgement of his family's prestige, he continued. "I've served aboard HMS _Jolly Good_ for the last several years—"

"Wait—you were on a ship called the _Jolly Good_?" I interrupted.

Bligh chuckled, but Sir Henry looked rather annoyed. "You mean you've not heard of the _Jolly Good_? One of the trio of Britain's most dangerous warships!"

"The other two being?" I said, still incredulous.

"HMS _Quite Amiable_ and HMS _Rather Pleasant_," said Sir Henry, looking aghast that I hadn't heard of these formidable ships. Even Lawrence was frowning at me in disapproval.

"Oh—sorry," I said. "I'm not really much of a naval historian." Their frowns remained entrenched, so I tried to lighten them up. "I guess you're just lucky you weren't aboard the HMS _Thumbs Up_, huh? Okay, _sorry_," I said, as Bligh snorted with laughter and the other two looked appalled at my daring. "Just a joke. You were saying, Sir Henry?"

"Well," he said, still regarding me suspiciously, "I hopped off the _Jolly Good_ at Charles Towne and headed out here because I'd heard the Dragoons were in the area. I did a bit of scouting and found that Lawrence was here, so—I came to surprise him for the ball this evening!"

Lawrence grinned, good mood restored. "Yes, we shall dance the night away!" he said happily.

Sir Henry nodded and smiled, looking rather pained. Bligh seemed to have adopted his grumpy mode again, making me wonder what precisely he had against Sir Henry. He seemed all right to me—precisely what I'd expect from a school friend of Lawrence's—but he and Bligh seemed curiously antagonistic toward one another. Perhaps they had some history together?

"Well," said Lawrence, cutting into my thoughts, "I hate to abandon you, Mrs. Tavington, but we'd best be getting back to camp. Must prepare ourselves for the ball, you know!"

"What time does it start?" I asked, puzzled. "It can't be much past noon."

"Dinner begins at six!" Lawrence replied, looking scandalized. "My dear lady, you must realize how much there is to be done!"

I was puzzled. "Well, I mean, _I_ have to get myself into a gown and do something about my hair, but—"

"Exactly!" said Lawrence.

Bligh rolled his eyes; Sir Henry still looked awkward; and I just shrugged it off. Why Lawrence would need upwards of five hours to prepare for a ball was beyond me, but—live and let live. "Well, I'll see you tonight, then," I said.

Bligh nodded, Sir Henry waved uncomfortably, and Lawrence bowed deeply. "Until tonight, madam," he said, and led his companions off toward camp as I retired into the house.

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Later that afternoon, Lieutenant Bligh sat hunched over the table in the tent he shared with Lawrence, peering into a small bit of cracked brownish glass that passed for a mirror. If it hadn't been for his run-in with the Colonel this morning, everything would have been fine; but Tavington had been in an especially foul mood and had told Bligh in no uncertain terms that excess facial hair would not be tolerated this evening.

"Have someone attack you with a knife, for all I care," the Colonel had snarled, "but I want it _gone_ by this evening. How do you think it makes me look as a commander if my officers have this sort of absurd semi-beard growing on their chins? If you don't do it, I _will_ do it for you," and he had stomped off, leaving Bligh desolate behind him.

Bligh had never been one for shaving. These sharp little bits of metal that passed for razors here weren't what he had become accustomed to, and though he thought he had gotten rid of the stubble that had so offended Tavington, something didn't seem quite right. The mirror revealed nothing, though, and before he could ponder it further, Lawrence burst into the tent, already clad in his dress uniform pants and tight, freshly starched shirt.

"Well?" he said, looking expectantly at Bligh.

Bligh sniffed. "It smells like lemons in here," he said.

Lawrence reddened slightly. "Never _mind_ that, are you ready to go? Only I told Edward we'd be there a bit early to help greet everyone."

"Just a moment," grunted Bligh. He sniffed the air again as he pulled on his shirt and waistcoat. "Doesn't it smell like lemons to you, eh?"

"Don't forget your sword," Lawrence said, ignoring him. "You did polish it? I did mine twice today, just in case—I don't want Tavington on me this evening!"

"I polished it," said Bligh, following Lawrence out of the tent toward their horses. Surprisingly, the smell of lemons only intensified outside the tent. Bligh looked around, trying to locate the source of the smell, then jogged forward so he was in step with Lawrence. "It's you, mate."

"What is?" Lawrence stopped and turned toward him.

"You smell like lemons," said Bligh.

Lawrence harrumphed and turned back toward the horses, but as he did so, Bligh noticed that his hair was several shades lighter than the customary medium brown. "Lawrence—you didn't actually—"

"And what if I did?" said Lawrence. "The lemons were just _sitting_ there on the table in the dining room at Peartree—no one _wanted_ them—and anyway, _you_'_ve_ no right to criticize anyone else's grooming habits!" And he stalked off toward the horses, leaving Bligh to wonder nervously what he was implying.

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It had not been the best of days for Colonel Tavington. He awoke every bit as annoyed at his wife as he had been when he had left Peartree, and sore from his exertion the evening before to boot. The cannon had needed cleaning, but he rather regretted having done it now. It didn't help that every single one of his Dragoons seemed to be conspiring against him. When he had made his afternoon rounds, Tavington had had to tell virtually all of them to polish their weapons for the ball this evening; to make matters worse, Bligh evidently hadn't seen fit to shave for several days, and Lawrence smelled overpoweringly of lemons. If his men continued to behave this way, particularly at the ball this evening, he would undoubtedly be laughed out of the army.

Tavington put on his dress pants and shirt before mounting his horse to ride back to the plantation. He would have to fetch his jacket from the closet at Peartree—he only hoped his wife would be elsewhere so that he wouldn't have to spend any more time in her presence than was absolutely necessary. Once he arrived at the house, however, it seemed that there were other things in store for him: the sentry informed him that Cornwallis wanted to see him in the upstairs drawing room, immediately. Sighing, he climbed the stairs and went left down the hall toward Cornwallis's quarters.

Tapping lightly on the door, Tavington entered the room to find Lawrence, Rutledge, and O'Hara grouped around Cornwallis, blocking him from view. "Really, General, it's lovely!" drawled Rutledge, ignoring Tavington's sudden appearance.

Cornwallis, however, shooed his companions away and stepped toward Tavington. "What do you think, Colonel?"

Only Tavington's consummate self-control prevented his face from betraying the horror he felt at Cornwallis's garments. Instead of his customary red uniform coat, the General was clad in a cream-colored one adorned with lurid greenish-yellow pears. Tavington mustered his strength to emit a fairly believable "Very nice," but could say no more.

It seemed to be enough, however. Rutledge beamed, O'Hara looked somewhat surprised, and Lawrence clapped his hands. "Isn't it _wonderful_?" gushed Lawrence. "Edward had it specially ordered from Charles Towne for the General! Pears—Peartree—it's perfect!"

"Indeed," said Tavington, now fighting the urge to wallop the lieutenant about the head with his pistol. "Not precisely—uniform—though, is it, Milord?"

"Oh, Tavington, nobody cares about that sort of thing these days!" said Cornwallis, waving a hand.

"Mmm," growled Tavington, unable to keep from glaring at Lawrence, whose scarf seemed somehow brighter than ever against his freshly laundered green coat and lighter-than-usual hair.

"Yes, well," said Cornwallis briskly. "I need a moment with the Colonel, gentlemen." Rutledge, Lawrence, and O'Hara filed obediently out of the room, leaving Tavington to wonder what this was about. Cornwallis paced for a moment, then turned back to face him. "I wonder, Colonel—how are things between yourself and Mrs. Tavington?"

Tavington groaned inwardly, but did his best to keep his expression neutral. "Milord?"

Cornwallis smiled knowingly. "My dear fellow, I could not help but notice that you left Peartree last night in rather a hurry." Tavington squeezed his eyes shut to keep himself from rolling them. When he opened them again, Cornwallis was chuckling softly. "My apologies, Colonel, it was not my intent to distress you so!"

"Milord, I—" began Tavington, then stopped, realizing he had no idea how to persuade the General away from this discomfiting topic.

"Not to worry, not to worry! I merely wished to say that you should not hesitate to call on me if there is anything I can do to help you two along!" His merriment ceased abruptly as he regarded Tavington. "I am very fond of your wife, Colonel, as I am sure you must know, and I _so_ dislike seeing her unhappy."

"I am sure your Lordship is very generous—" began Tavington, mustering every ounce of restraint he possessed. Cornwallis interrupted him.

"None of this nonsense, Tavington! I called you in here for two reasons. First, to tell you that I expect you to behave with the utmost courtesy to your wife, especially tonight—" here he paused to eye Tavington sternly— "and second, to tell you that I have something of a task for you to carry out during the course of the evening."

"And what might that be, Milord?" Tavington asked, glowering at the General.

"You know Lord Brocklehurst, of course?" Tavington nodded sullenly. "Well, his daughters will be at the ball this evening. Tavington, it is _vital_ that we continue to stay in Brocklehurst's good favor. He has insinuated that, should his daughters marry honorably into His Majesty's Army, he will be much more inclined in future to continue his financial support of this regiment—support which, as he made sure to remind me at our last meeting, he is at present somewhat hesitant about."

"Milord," said Tavington carefully, "I fail to understand how I might be involved."

"Not you _personally_, Colonel," said Cornwallis, brow furrowed as he frowned at Tavington. "Put some of your men on the task! I'm sure that your Dragoons could not fail pleasing the young ladies. How about that Lawrence, for instance? He seems quite an agreeable young chap!"

"Quite," agreed Tavington dryly. "I shall do what I can, Milord." Cornwallis said nothing, only continued to frown at him. "Was there anything else?"

"Your wife!" barked Cornwallis. "I am sure the lady must require some assistance with her preparations for the ball. Why are you not already aiding her?" Tavington stared blankly at the General. "Go!" thundered Cornwallis, and Tavington went.

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I found myself wishing, after I had spent a good twenty minutes struggling with a corset, that my companion from the whores' tent on my first night here was with me once more. Fortunately, Rutledge, ever the attentive and fashion-conscious gentleman, had foreseen my difficulties. Along with my newly finished dress, he sent up a serving girl to help me into the gown. She patiently ignored my curses and protestations that I couldn't breathe, and when I plunked myself down on the seat in front of the vanity, fully dressed at last, I had to admit that I looked quite pretty. Well, except for my hair, which was a complete rat's nest.

The girl seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Would you like me to do something about your hair, Miss?" she asked politely.

It felt a bit odd, having a servant assist me, but then I remembered how long it had taken a hairstylist to do my hair for Senior Ball—there was no way I could make it look presentable myself. "Sure," I said, somewhat awkwardly, and she began to comb carefully through my long, tangled hair.

I watched her in the mirror as she finished combing and piled my hair elegantly on top of my head, pinning it securely but leaving a few tendrils swirling down gently to frame my face. She didn't speak, and without anything to distract me, my thoughts strayed to Tavington. Beyond having forgiven him, I actually felt kind of bad. He _had _come to apologize the night before. Perhaps I could do something to make it up to him this evening—I really wanted this, my first (and probably only) ball, to be perfect, and if Tavington were his occasional charming self, it would help matters along quite a bit.

As the girl was pinning up the last bit of my hair, I saw movement in the mirror. I whirled around, and my heart skipped a beat as I met Tavington's perfectly blue gaze. "I didn't hear you come in," I said.

"My apologies," he said smoothly. "I heard no noise from within the room, and I assumed you were already downstairs."

"Then why did you come in?" I said.

Tavington raised an eyebrow, apparently surprised at the implication that he might have wanted to see me. "My coat is in the closet."

"Oh," I said, somewhat confused.

"Your services are no longer required," Tavington told the servant. She curtseyed and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

I stood, my hands clasped together, and addressed myself to Tavington's back as he went into the adjoining closet. "I'm sorry about last night," I said quietly. "I just—don't respond well to threats. I was being stubborn when I locked you out."

He stepped back out of the closet, adjusting his jacket, and paused to regard me for a moment. "You were quite right to lock the door," he said. "I only wish you had seen fit to let me in eventually."

I was too stunned at this admission that he had behaved poorly to respond, but Tavington wasn't done shocking me just yet. "You look…enchanting," he said, and held my gaze for a fraction of a second longer before busying himself with his buttons.

"Thanks," I said weakly, trying to still my heart, which was beating much more quickly than I was used to. I couldn't remember ever feeling quite so bewilderingly attracted to someone, even Paris.

At long last, Tavington finished buttoning and straightened up, the hint of a smile on his face. "Shall we?" he drawled, extending an arm to me.

I smiled faintly and nodded. Together, we swept out of the room and down the stairs into the ballroom.

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By the time dinner was over, I was sure that the rest of the evening couldn't be anything less than amazing. The ballroom looked delightful, orchids strung up all about the room and the chandelier throwing cheerful beams of light into every corner. There were perhaps thirty tables or so, all adorned with a bowl of pears in the center and each seating six; I wondered vaguely where all of the women had come from, because they made up probably a third of the company. Our table consisted of Tavington and myself, plus Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence, Sir Henry, and a Captain Schoen, whom I'd never met before but who was quite charming. Next to us, Cornwallis was chuckling happily with Baron Günther, and Rutledge. Across the table from Cornwallis sat a haughty-looking gentleman, flanked by two girls, one blonde, the other brunette, both of whom shared his long, regal nose and arrogant expression. Throughout dinner, both girls kept throwing looks over their shoulders at our table, but I wasn't about to be intimidated by their superciliousness, and I ignored them determinedly. Instead, I focused on the endearingly strange behavior at our table.

First, I couldn't help but notice that Bligh and Lawrence both looked rather different. Bligh had obviously shaved, ridding himself of his customary five-o'-clock shadow; but, whether by design or by accident, he had ignored the very edge of his jaw, so that his sideburns on either side extended down to his chin. Lawrence, on the other hand, was perfectly groomed as ever, scarf draped jauntily around his neck, but he was emitting a strong citrus smell, and I strongly suspected that he had found some lemons to use on his hair, which was now rather blonder than it had been this morning. Appearances aside, there was still the odd animosity between Bligh and Sir Henry that I had noticed this morning, while Captain Schoen seemed to admire Lawrence's vivacity. And while I sat drinking in the atmosphere and the amusing social interactions at our table, Tavington was just—drinking. I knew he wasn't happy at having to sit with his subordinates, particularly given his ever-tempestuous relationship with Lawrence, but he seemed particularly uncomfortable. He was still polite enough to me throughout dinner, but the moment we had had upstairs was gone, and he was rather quiet. He kept giving Cornwallis's table odd sidelong glances, taking a sip of his wine every time he did so. By the time we were finished with dessert, he'd consumed what I estimated to be nearly a full bottle—though the rest of my table wasn't too far behind.

At last, Rutledge stood and tapped his spoon against his wine glass. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he called. "If you would all be so kind as to move out to the gardens for a few moments, we shall clear the floor, and the ball can begin!" Immediately, there was a great scraping of chairs, and conversation resumed as everyone moved toward the doors into the garden. I saw the blonde girl from Cornwallis's table eyeing us again—only this time, I thought her gaze was perhaps focused on Tavington. Instinctively, I put my hand on his forearm as I stared back at her. The girl looked disgusted and turned away, but Tavington looked down at me in surprise.

"Oh—sorry," I said, withdrawing my hand. Tavington merely regarded me, looking slightly confused and very faintly cross-eyed. "Are you okay?" I said.

"I'm quite well," he said, slurring the words ever so subtly.

I frowned and followed him into the garden. By the time we made it outside, I had lost track of everyone I knew in the crowd, so I stood silently next to Tavington. He didn't seem inclined to talk, and I was enjoying just being outside in the beautifully warm night air. After a few minutes, Rutledge appeared in the doorway and addressed the crowd once more. "Ladies and gentlemen—the dance floor awaits you! Should you care to join us, I will be joining the musical ensemble for the first two dances." Here he paused to wave off the polite smattering of applause that rang throughout the garden. "We shall be performing a piece by Haydn—the Prussian," he said, spotting me and winking. "In honor of our guest, the Baron Hans Dieter Wolfgang von Pilsner." I saw the Baron raise a hand and bow from up near the front of the crowd.

Rutledge moved back inside the ballroom, and most of the throng of people followed him. I looked back at Tavington, who was glaring at the spot where Rutledge had stood. A few seconds later, I heard the opening strains of a sprightly dance. I glanced somewhat hopefully over at Tavington; I had always wanted to learn an English country dance, and I figured that if I had a knowledgeable partner, I could just follow his lead. But Tavington saw me look at him and interpreted my wistful expression correctly.

"I do not dance, madam," he said brusquely.

"Not even when Rutledge is playing specifically for us?" I knew my argument was no good from the expression on his face.

"I dance for no man," he said firmly, glaring at me.

"You and Janet Reno," I muttered grumpily.

Tavington stared at me. "I beg your pardon?" he said, clearly baffled.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," I said airily. "So does that mean you're not going to ask me to dance?"

"If you'll excuse me," he said. He turned neatly on his heel, grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and downed it in one go as he marched away into the gardens—leaving me alone, confused, and very much wanting to throw something at his departing head.

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Tavington stumbled away from his wife, head spinning slightly. Mustn't let on that he didn't _want _to leave her—it wouldn't do to think about that, about how lovely she looked in her new dress that matched her eyes, with her hair up so elegantly—no. He had a job to do. She would still be there later—better to keep her waiting, anyway, perhaps she'd appreciate him more once he came back. Cornwallis had said to find someone for those girls. The ones who had been eyeing him all through dinner—every time he had looked up, one of them was looking at him—he needed to find someone to look after them. Lawrence—yes, maybe Lawrence would do—a brainless fop was all that was needed, after all, and he certainly fulfilled that requirement…But where _was_ Lawrence? Or even Bligh? Of course, the ludicrous lieutenants were around in droves when one didn't want them, but when one actually _needed_ them….

He looked up and caught a flash of a bright red scarf through the ballroom window. Indoors. They were in—in the ballroom—he had to go into the ballroom. He made it through the door and promptly ran into Bligh. "Watch where you're going," he snarled.

"S-s-sorry, sir," stammered Bligh, wrapping his large hand more securely around a very small stein of beer. This caught Tavington's eye.

"And drink like a soldier in His Majesty's army! You're not a bloody Prussian!" he barked, before pushing back into the crowd to get toward the flash of red he had seen. No, Bligh could not be trusted with those—Brocklehurst? Yes, that was it—those Brocklehurst girls…the idea of Bligh seducing anyone was laughable….

Just then, Tavington came upon Lawrence and his merry band. That damned scarf had evidently attracted a following—Lawrence was surrounded by a bevy of young women, as well as that idiot of an Ensign that had been at their table at dinner, Captain Schoen, and Rutledge. The Baron stood a few feet behind Lawrence, nodding. All of them seemed to be hanging on Lawrence's every word—

"Ah, Colonel Tavington!" drawled Rutledge into the burst of laughter that had followed Lawrence's latest pronouncement. "I do hope you're enjoying yourself! And where is your charming wife?"

Tavington shot him what he hoped was a quelling look and pressed on, ignoring the urge to pause and lean against the wall for a moment to get his balance back. He didn't _look_ drunk, and that was what mattered—where were those girls, anyway?—probably outside—it was bloody hot in this ballroom….

He gained the garden at last and paused, allowing himself a few deep breaths. Best to find the Misses Brocklehurst now, and ensure that they enjoyed themselves—he would just have to sacrifice himself for his duty—it wasn't as though it was the first time, and he wasn't a dancer…his wife would fend for herself just fine without him, she always did….

Just then, Cornwallis appeared in his line of vision. "Colonel Tavington! Just the man I was looking for!" He tittered slightly as he said it, and Tavington felt briefly justified in the fact that he was not alone in having consumed rather too much wine with dinner.

"Milord," Tavington replied, focusing with some difficulty on Cornwallis's companions.

"You are acquainted with Lord Brocklehurst, I believe?" Tavington nodded briefly at the beak-nosed man to Cornwallis's left. "And may I present his charming daughters, Miss Charlotte and Miss Marianne Brocklehurst?" He indicated the blonde and the brunette in turn, both of whom curtseyed.

"Charmed," said Tavington, even managing a small smile. The General wanted these girls to be won over before the evening was out…he was up to the challenge, since none of his Dragoons could be trusted…he focused all of his mental energy on the task of nodding politely and looking interested as he allowed the conversation to flow past him.

And before he knew it, Charlotte and Marianne Brocklehurst had each secured one of his arms and were leading him toward a bench in the middle of the garden, both jabbering happily at him. As a waiter passed by, he extracted his arm from the brunette's grasp to seize another glass of champagne. "Pardon me," he said, not waiting for their polite forgiveness before gulping down the whole glass.

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I realized, after a few minutes of standing alone in the garden, that Tavington was not going to return. I didn't see anyone else I knew, either; it was probably better to go inside. At least there I'd have a chance of soliciting myself a dancing partner. And once Tavington saw me with another man, I was sure his possessive streak would flare and he would come back to me—I didn't bother considering what I wanted to happen, I just knew that I wanted him there with me.

Almost as soon as I made it into the ballroom, I ran into Lieutenant Bligh. He was standing by himself, a few feet away from the small crowd of people that surrounded Lawrence. As I drew closer, I saw that Bligh was clutching a tiny glass of beer in one huge hand. "Lieutenant!" I said once I was within hearing range.

He looked very surprised to hear me addressing him. "Mrs. Tavington! Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Sure," I said. "Um…would it be too forward of me—do you want to dance, Lieutenant?" I said, throwing caution to the winds and glancing around me.

"Love to," said Bligh. To my surprise, though, instead of leading me out into the middle of the ballroom where couples were weaving in and out through a complicated dance, Bligh threw the hand not holding the beer up into the air and, one long finger extended toward the ceiling, began swaying vaguely. He took a swig of beer, draining the stein, and only then noticed that I was standing stock still, staring at him.

"What are you doing?" I said, utterly baffled, because Bligh's 'dancing' looked like nothing so much as what I'd seen the most awkward of my classmates do at every formal I'd attended.

Bligh turned bright red, passing a vast hand over his brow, seemingly trying to gather himself. "I've—uh—never been much good at the line dancing," he said vaguely.

Just then, Lawrence appeared next to Bligh. "My dear Mrs. Tavington!" he said brightly, then added in an undertone, indicating a group of girls who were standing behind him, looking very disappointed, "I've only just managed to get away. You wouldn't _believe_ how the ladies love my new Austrian jokes!" Despite being a good six inches shorter than Bligh, Lawrence was clearly outshining his friend—perhaps it was the striking fiery red of his scarf.

Now the Baron had joined us, holding a beer stein that was roughly four times the size of Bligh's. "You are haffing amusement, I hope, Mrs. Tavington?" he said.

"Of course," I said, hoping I wasn't somehow mistaking his meaning.

"I'd ask you dance, Mrs. Tavington, but I'm afraid my dance card's all full for the evening!" said Lawrence brightly, glancing over his shoulder once more at the group of girls.

"_Lecker_," said the Baron.

Lawrence shot a fierce look at Bligh, who was coughing in a manner that sounded suspiciously like laughter. "Günther—you know—there are some pastries over there," he said, pointing to a mountain of _petits fours_ on a nearby table. "Would you care for some?"

"Oh, _nein_, I haff no hunger, but zat is fery kind of you!" said Günther. "_Extrem wichtig_…" and he wandered off, taking a gulp from his beer stein.

Lawrence rolled his eyes dramatically at me. "I just don't under_stand_ that man, Mrs. Tavington—but no matter—if you'll excuse me, I must attend to the ladies!" He winked at me and disappeared into the crowd, a girl on each arm. I turned back to Bligh and was about to bid him farewell when Ensign Milner appeared next to us.

"Lawrence was just here, wasn't he?" he said to Bligh, and then, spotting me, "Oh, hello, Mrs. Tavington."

"Hi," I said, and seeing that Bligh would rather glare at him than answer his question, I responded. "He just left to dance with a couple of girls."

"Ah—I see," he said, and fell into an awkward silence.

"Sir Henry, I don't suppose you'd—" I began, electing to take a chance on asking another man to dance rather than be left standing here while Bligh sipped his beer, but he cut me off.

"Actually, Mrs. Tavington—I—er—I'm not much of a dancer," said the ensign.

"That's what Bligh said, too!" I said, annoyed. They exchanged glances, in which I could again detect the odd enmity. I'd had enough. "You know—just—never mind," I said. "I'm going to find Rutledge."

Rutledge, though, was far easier to find than I'd expected, owing to the fact that he had climbed atop a table to give some of his admiring guests a brief dancing lesson. I couldn't even get close enough to talk to him, but as he swiveled and swayed gracefully, I saw Cornwallis chortling, red-faced, the dour long-nosed man unamused next to him.

I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead. I had to get out of this ballroom, and soon. It was stiflingly hot, and everyone I knew was either absurdly intoxicated or entertaining other people. And, honestly, I just wanted Tavington. I was sleepy, exhausted by the heat and the people and my couple of glasses of wine; and I wanted Tavington to be nice to me the way he had been sometimes, to brush my hair and kiss the back of my hand and tell me I looked enchanting. I pushed my way back to the doors into the garden and paused, drinking in the relatively cool night air and admiring the stillness that met my ringing ears. I took a few steps toward the middle of the garden, where the benches were, and stopped short.

Tavington was standing in a corner of the inner portion of the garden, flanked by the two girls that had been watching us at dinner. He was, I could tell, drunker than when I'd left him, but he still stood straight upright, and he seemed engaged in what the girls were saying, nodding and occasionally smiling or contributing to the conversation. I couldn't move; I felt utterly betrayed, simultaneously wanting to sob and scream—but before I could run back inside to do either one, the brunette saw me and whispered something to the blonde, who turned to look at me and then turned back to her sister, laughing derisively. At her laughter, Tavington looked up, and his eyes met mine—and for one second, it was just the two of us, alone—and then I turned and ran. Back into the ballroom, shoving my way through the crowd; I reached the silent sanctuary of the hall and continued my flight, up the stairs, pausing at the top to catch my breath, limited by the corset; and finally, finally, I reached the shelter of my bedroom and collapsed onto my bed, too tired to sleep, too tired to cry, too tired to think.

I didn't lock the door.

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Tavington saw his wife flee and knew, somewhere toward the surface of his addled consciousness, that this situation was exactly what he _didn't_ want—but he had no choice, Cornwallis had said to entertain the girls, and he was trying—trying to do his duty, and someone would always have to be disappointed, and why shouldn't it be him? He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed himself at a ball, and why start now? His wife wanted nothing to do with him, anyway—he'd seen her with Bligh, with Lawrence, even with the Baron…no, he was better off where he was, with these simple girls who required nothing from him, who inspired no feeling in him… Kat was gone, and he was here, and nothing could change that.

He took another glass of champagne and resolved to sip this time, to make it last longer. He could already feel a dull, pounding headache, though whether that was from the alcohol or the company, he honestly didn't know. And even when he was rid of these tiresome girls—her door would be locked, it always was, she'd never wanted any part of him…

And to make the whole situation that much worse, Tavington could hear Lawrence, the punch line of his latest Austrian joke floating out a nearby window into the garden. He groaned to himself; was there no mercy in the world?

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	17. Everytime We Touch

I woke up just as the first traces of light were appearing in the sky. Apparently I had been so exhausted after the previous evening's emotional rollercoaster that I was dead to the world once I finally fell asleep, because I never heard Tavington anywhere near the door—clearly, he hadn't even tried to come in. He hadn't taken kindly to being locked out the night before, and he had probably assumed I had locked him out again; but then, I reminded myself, he'd found company he preferred to mine last night at the ball, so why would he even bother with me? A fresh wave of emotion rushed through me at the thought, and I buried my head in the pillow, willing myself not to cry. I was so confused and so angry at myself: I couldn't figure out why this was affecting me so. It wasn't as though this "marriage" meant anything to me, since I had no intention of staying here, and, given my attitude, Tavington was under no obligation to be faithful to me, a woman he obviously had no attachment to anyway. I cursed myself for hypocrisy as I dragged myself out of bed: here I was feeling betrayed, when that very feeling was an indication of my own betrayal of Paris.

I stood at the window and peered through the curtains at the lightening sky, and without warning, my confused sadness dissipated, to be replaced by violent anger. I had every right to feel betrayed, because I had been. I had let my guard down enough to believe that I meant something to Tavington, as he did to me; and this was how he repaid me—by leaving me embarrassingly on my own at a ball while he chatted up a pair of floozies. Suddenly I needed to get out, just to escape the confines of the house. I leapt out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown that was hanging in the closet and slipped out of the house, ignoring the questioning glance of the solitary, bleary-eyed sentry on the veranda. I practically ran toward the shelter of the trees, cursing as I did so. Screw Tavington and his bloody charm! Screw this situation I had been put into! I charged into the woods, blindly shoving aside branches that happened to be in my way. After walking for a few minutes, I found myself next to a pool where water from the slow-moving brook had collected. The water looked so peaceful as it flowed gently over the pool's edge in a mini-waterfall to the moving brook below, and I found myself calming slightly as I looked at it. I heaved a deep sigh and sank down onto my knees, staring into the water.

"You can't keep running away," purred a cold voice from behind me. I jumped up and whirled around to find myself facing Tavington, who was standing some ten feet away from me.

My rage flared up again instantly, both because he had interrupted my moment of peace and because I had just noticed he was still clad in his dress uniform from last night, looking rather the worse for wear. "Like you give a damn what I do!" I snarled back.

His glacial eyes flashed a warning and he took a step toward me. "I beg your pardon, _Mrs._ Tavington," he said, a dangerous tone in his voice, "but as it happens, you are my wife; and, regardless of what my own wishes may be, your behavior reflects upon me."

"Oh, and you think it doesn't work both ways?" I said, my voice rising shrilly. "If you're going to pretend that you care about my behavior, then why don't you stop to reflect on your own?"

He paused, raised his head ever so slightly, and said coldly, "I have no idea what you are—"

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about! Last night, at the ball! How do you think Ifelt when you got yourself smashed and then went off chasing women?!" I cried.

He took another step toward me. "If you are referring to the Misses Brocklehurst, whose favor I was courting at the—"

"Oh, so you admit that's what you were doing?" I was practically shrieking now, much to my consternation. "'Courting their favor'?!"

His brow furrowed momentarily and then his expression cleared, controlled anger replaced by an unpleasant smirk. "If that had been the sense in which I meant it, I would have been well within my rights as a husband."

"What do you know about 'rights,' tyrant?" I spat. His eyes narrowed to icy blue slits.

"Do not presume to condescend to me," he growled, any trace of a smile gone. "Or did you fail to pay attention to the bit of the wedding vows where you swore to 'honor and obey' me?"

"Even if that misogynistic phrase were meant literally—which I take issue with—it hardly applies when the person I'm supposed to obey doesn't _honor_ his own vow to be faithful!" I immediately wished I hadn't said it.

"And what precisely, madam, do you believe that I am being unfaithful to?" His voice had lowered to a tone almost frightening in comparison to my own near-yelling. "Charming though our…arrangement…is, I hardly think it qualifies as a marriage in the conventional sense of the term."

I breathed in quickly and forced myself to sound at least somewhat calm. "Well, since _this_ clearly means nothing to either of us—" I yanked off my wedding ring and held it up, where it glinted in the first rays of sunlight that had broken through the trees— "then why don't I just dispose of it?" And I pulled my arm back and catapulted the ring into the creek.

"You—that—I—you—" spluttered Tavington, as incoherent as I had ever heard him. "That was my mother's!"

I gaped at him. "But I asked you if it was a family heirloom, and you said—"

"I lied," he said shortly, now looking murderous.

"Oh," I said, confused and somewhat abashed. My anger had dissipated abruptly. "I'll go get it, then."

"No, don't—" he began, but I had already leapt into the creek's pool, dressing gown and all.

The water was cold—much colder than I expected, given how warm the air was—but not too deep: perhaps six feet, and luckily quite clear. Spluttering, I spotted the ring gleaming atop a rock at the bottom of the other side of the pool. I took a deep breath and breaststroked over to it, then dove down into the water and grabbed it. Task accomplished, I swam back across the pool to where Tavington still stood, grasping the ring triumphantly in my left hand. He watched me, an odd look on his face, as I climbed out of the pool. Awkwardly rearranging the dressing gown around myself as I straightened up, I set my shoulders back, held my head high, and looked Tavington straight in the eye—and he threw back his head and laughed.

I was completely taken aback. I'd barely seen the man smile, let alone laugh—and here we were, alone in the woods, and he was laughing as though he'd never stop. The crushing tension of the atmosphere had vanished, to be replaced by something else entirely—but somehow I felt even more uncomfortable.

"What are you laughing at?" I asked suspiciously.

"At you," he said, finally calming down and returning to his normal posture, albeit with entirely more merriment than could generally be glimpsed in the cold countenance of the fearsome Colonel. "You look ridiculous."

"Well, thank you," I said frostily, but as the laughter cleared from his face his eyes took on an unreadable expression, and he merely regarded me as I stood dripping in the late summer sunshine. He seemed like an entirely different person than the one I had been arguing with not five minutes before, and yet I was becoming increasingly nervous.

"It wasn't my intent to offend you," he said quietly.

"Last night or just now?" I said, still testy.

"Either," he said, and I sensed that this was as much of an apology as I was going to receive. To my surprise, however, he continued. "In my defense, I was carrying out Cornwallis's orders at the ball; Lord Brocklehurst's daughters are very important to him, and _he_ is very important to the General, and to His Majesty's army. But my behavior was unpardonable." He looked away from me briefly, then met my eyes once more, questioningly.

I seized the proverbial olive branch. "I'm sorry I threw your mother's ring," I said, looking down at the ring in my palm to escape the intensity of his eyes. I noticed, for the first time, that there was an inscription inside the band; this was the first time since the wedding that the ring had not been on my hand. I thought wildly, for a split second, that perhaps it would say something to the effect of "One ring to rule them all." I held it up and peered at it. "'Never a change'?"

"Family motto," Tavington said sardonically, "though better applicable in some relationships than in others, I think. Allow me," and he plucked the ring from between my fingers and took my left hand gently in his right.

It was at that moment that I realized just how seldom he had touched me, and how electrifying it was when he did: he had combed my hair and kissed my hand, but this was something else entirely. Time seemed to slow as he slid the ring carefully over my knuckle and slowly, slowly raised his eyes again to mine, still grasping my hand with both of his.

I willed myself to stay composed, which was very hard to do when he was standing this close to me. "Why didn't you come upstairs last night? After the ball?"

He dropped my hand abruptly but remained where he was. "I consumed, as you may have observed, rather too much of Rutledge's French wine, and—I knew you wouldn't have wished me to be anywhere near you. So I stayed away."

"Oh," I said, and then added without thinking, "I didn't lock the door."

Something like a smile flitted across his face, and he took a small step toward me. "Am I to understand, then, that you missed my company last night?"

The look in his eyes, far more than my own judgment, compelled me to tell the truth. I nodded once, slowly. My heart was racing and I squeezed my eyes shut briefly, knowing even as I did so that it was already over, that my brain was no longer in control of the situation. I opened my eyes to find that Tavington's gaze was on me once more, piercing but far from cold, and I swallowed hard under its intensity. He reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from my face, and his hand lingered next to my cheek. I shivered as he took a final step toward me, closing the distance between us; but rather than from cold it was from a knowledge of what was about to happen, the inevitable magnetic pull of myself to him. I barely had the presence of mind to close my eyes before his lips met mine, firm but incredibly gentle. I shivered again, blood pounding in my ears, as the kiss deepened; and we moved closer still, his arm coming around my waist as his other hand wove its way into my hair—

From somewhere behind us, a throat was cleared delicately. "Colonel Tavington, sir?" said Lieutenant Lawrence.

Tavington leapt away from me and whirled about to face Lawrence, who adjusted his scarf nervously. "Lieutenant," he growled.

Lawrence ignored the homicidal rage in Tavington's voice and, looking past him, smiled at me. "Good morning, Mrs. Tavington. I beg your pardon for the interruption."

Tavington glanced over his shoulder at me and then, suddenly realizing that I was still wearing a dripping wet nightgown, leapt in front of me, blocking me from Lawrence's line of sight. "Lieutenant! Avert your eyes!" he snarled.

"Of course, sir," said Lawrence, sounding bashful. "Come along, Daniel." He turned the white horse around so its back—and his—were to us. I stifled a giggle; Tavington spared me a withering glance before turning back to his wayward lieutenant.

"How may I help you, Lieutenant?" he said, voice steely.

Lawrence straightened up in the saddle, military bearing taking over. "Sir, the rebel militia are moving. General Lord Cornwallis is amassing troops at Waxhaws. He sent me to find you so that you could prepare the Dragoons for battle."

All trace of annoyance gone, Tavington was suddenly in military mode. "Lawrence! I shall need your horse. You shall have him back when you meet me at camp. Your coat, Lieutenant," he said over Lawrence's protests. As Lawrence obediently removed his coat, I noted again the awkward tightness of his shirt—had it shrunk in the wash? Tavington must have noticed, too, because I saw him roll his eyes before he barked, "And give me that infernal scarf as well." He plucked the requested items out of the dejected lieutenant's hands and marched back over to where I still stood. He held Lawrence's coat out to me and I put it on, my shivering ceasing instantly under the heavy material. Somewhat stiffly, he wrapped the scarf around my shoulders and stood regarding me.

"Please be careful," I whispered, a thousand confused emotions beating in my flustered brain.

He said nothing, merely took my left hand in his once again and, bending low, kissed it lightly. He touched the recently restored ring briefly before releasing it, as if to remind me of what had just passed between us, and gave me one last intense, fleeting look before turning away. "Lawrence! Kindly escort my wife back to Peartree. You can borrow a horse there. I shall see you in camp in one hour. Be ready to ride." Lawrence dismounted obediently and Tavington leapt atop Daniel and, without a backward glance, galloped away into the trees.

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Lieutenant Lawrence applauded inwardly as he strode toward the stables at Peartree, having just seen Mrs. Tavington safely inside. He couldn't _wait_ to tell Bligh about the scene he had come upon in the woods! For all of General Lord Cornwallis's assurances that the Colonel and his wife were getting along swimmingly, Lawrence had not been convinced, though he hadn't wanted to intervene again after the disastrous affair of the Greek poetry. Edward had always said that they seemed to get along well, even if they weren't the chattiest of couples, and of course Edward would know, living with them as he did. But what they had all seen at the ball the evening before had been enough to make even Bligh admit that perhaps things were not at all well with the Tavingtons; Lawrence had to agree that any woman desperate enough to ask _Bligh_ for a dance when his sideburns looked like that—! And the only times they had seen the Colonel, he had been too drunk even to make a disparaging remark about Lawrence's scarf, which was really more telling than anything else. All in all, Lawrence had been ready to give up hope that Mrs. Tavington's marriage would ever be a happy one—that is, until that scene he had so happily stumbled upon this morning. Knowing Colonel Tavington, of course, Lawrence would be taken to task later for his unfortunate viewing of that charming tableau; but it was worth it for the satisfaction of seeing a matchmaking effort gone right!

Lawrence chose a horse at random from the stables and mounted, not even bothering with a saddle; he didn't particularly like riding bareback, but escorting Mrs. Tavington back to Peartree had taken rather longer than he had expected, and he needed to be back in camp soon so he could groom Daniel properly before the battle. After all, what was the point in being a Green Dragoon if one's steed wasn't gleaming intimidatingly when one was charging one's enemies?

The Colonel and his lady occupied Lawrence's thoughts throughout his ride; one thing that he simply couldn't understand was why Mrs. Tavington had been so queerly reticent this morning as he had escorted her back. She had seemed bemused and worried, not at all like someone who had just been interrupted in the middle of wishing her husband good morning…. With an effort, Lawrence pushed these thoughts away as he galloped into camp and dismounted. There was an air of almost palpable excitement surrounding the Dragoons as they rushed around their section of camp. Fortunately, Bligh was easy to spot because of his height; and more fortunately still, he had Daniel in addition to his own steed. Lawrence rushed over to them.

"Where have you been?" growled Bligh without preamble.

"I stayed the night at Peartree, but never mind that!" said Lawrence. He seized a brush from the ground nearby and began stroking Daniel. Looking around furtively for any sign of the Colonel, Lawrence lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "The General sent me out this morning to find Colonel Tavington, to inform him of the troop movements, so I followed him into the woods, and—I saw him embracing Mrs. Tavington!"

Bligh looked astonished. "Really?"

"I swear it, on Daniel's mane!" said Lawrence, naming the first thing that occurred to him. This seemed to get Bligh's attention.

"How old is he, eh?" said Bligh, nodding in the direction of the horse.

"He just turned three," said Lawrence proudly, now adjusting the saddle carefully on Daniel's back.

Bligh's brow furrowed. "I thought he was older."

Lawrence made a noise of disapproval as Bligh lapsed back into silence, but his mind was on other things. Far from the General's successes in matchmaking, Lawrence's attention was now focused upon the task at hand: battle. It had been some weeks since the Dragoons had been engaged in actual combat, and he was slightly nervous, though of course more excited; wasn't this why he had joined the most celebrated cavalry in the world?

Just then, Lawrence realized he was wearing his scarf again; Mrs. Tavington had handed it back to him, along with his coat, as she went inside the house, and he had put it back on. The Colonel couldn't be in a very good mood, though, and Lawrence had a feeling that he wouldn't take kindly to seeing it again this morning—but he simply couldn't leave it behind. Daniel would just have to wear it, then!

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The day that followed that confusing, wonderful morning was one of the worst of my life. Unable to settle down for more than five minutes at a time, I spent the day primarily pacing, around the sewing room and the house and the gardens and back inside, in a mindless pattern. Rutledge seemed to gather quickly that I was in no mood to talk, and so I was left mostly to my own devices.

The problem was—I loved Tavington. I knew it the second he mounted Lawrence's horse and galloped away. I loved him, and it was both ridiculous and monumentally problematic. Ridiculous, because I was emotionally abandoning my faithful boyfriend of two years for a temperamental, antisocial brute whose profession involved killing Americans. And problematic, because—I had to get home, and I couldn't allow anything to stop me. I had a life to live, a life with my parents and Paris and Harvard; it was absurd that I was here anyway, and it wasn't where I belonged. My resolve strengthened each time I reached this point in my cyclical thoughts: I _would_ go home, soon, maybe even today—never mind that I didn't know how I'd get there, just getting out of this situation would free me.

Because—loving Tavington was completely antithetical to loving Paris. With Paris, it was comfortable and affectionate and, above all, reciprocal—and with Tavington, it could never be any of those. I would rather never find out how Harry Potter ended than tell Tavington that I loved him.

I _had_ to go home. I needed to see my parents; I needed to see Paris, even if we would just be friends now. My future was calling to me, in more ways than one—how could I possibly fulfill my ambitions if I were trapped here, the obedient wife of a fierce Colonel?

And yet, when it came to it, I couldn't leave. I couldn't leave not knowing what happened to Bligh and Lawrence—or, worse, finding the fate of those I had learned to care for on the pages of a history book. Rutledge and Cornwallis were obviously prominent enough to be researched by historians, but what about Tavington? I knew that the British were very close to being defeated decisively; if he survived, where would he go? I couldn't stand the thought of not being there with him, to find out the answers first-hand.

There was no easy solution; the choices were completely irreconcilable. And so I continued to pace, distraught, until darkness began to fall and I settled down in my sewing room to keep a vigil for the man I…loved.

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Several hours had passed and the sky had grown completely dark before I finally heard the sound of galloping hooves. At first I wasn't sure if perhaps my frenzied mind was playing tricks on me, but the noise grew louder, and, squinting, I could make out a few figures on horseback heading down the avenue toward the plantation. I sprang up, ran to the door and down the stairs, and skidded to a halt at the front door, which I flung open. I heard Rutledge behind me as I went outside to wait in front of the veranda. Staring intently, I realized that Cornwallis was leading several soldiers I didn't recognize, but there was no sign of Tavington. I only had to wait a few more seconds for Cornwallis to arrive in the clearing in front of the house, and I was beside him the moment he dismounted.

He looked at me gravely, his face lined with exhaustion. "Mrs. Tavington," he said solemnly. "Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence just returned to camp. I knew you would be anxious about them."

"And…the Colonel?" I whispered, almost wishing he wouldn't respond.

The furrows in his brow deepened. "We lost sight of him when the Dragoons charged the rebels."

I could feel the blood draining from my face, and I suddenly felt faint.

"Not to worry, my dear, there is no reason to believe that he has come to any harm," said the General, clearly attempting to bolster my spirits, but his solemn expression belied his cheerful tone.

I sank to the ground, shaking off the General's worried queries. There was a buzzing in my ears as I watched the chaos around me; people were coming and going, and I saw a doctor arrive, but still there was no sign of Tavington. After what felt like hours, the traffic around the house had slowed somewhat, and I focused enough to see a solitary horse making its way toward me. The figure on it was slumped forward, clearly in pain, and I sprang to my feet. Whoever this soldier was, he obviously needed help—I could see a dark stain that had spread its way over his pristine white shirt and dark green jacket. As he got closer, I realized that there was something familiar about the soldier…the way he was attempting to hold himself up…

It was Tavington.

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	18. Black and White Like a Cop Car

Colonel Tavington's first, confused thought upon waking was that somebody should do something about those bloody curtains. Whatever was the purpose of curtains if they let the light in? He opened his eyes cautiously, then immediately shut them again. He couldn't see anything; the room was too bright. Where was he? He focused all of his energy on remembering. He had awakened on the silent battlefield under a darkening sky, his head throbbing painfully and a gaping wound just to the right of his ribcage. Around him, men were piled atop each other—he felt that this circumstance must be due largely to himself, and his sword, though he couldn't recall the particulars. He had struggled to his feet and, knowing that he must at all costs get back to Peartree, mounted his horse. Luckily the beast had been unharmed; it must have found its way to safety somehow, because now…he was here. Though where here was was difficult to ascertain when he couldn't open his eyes. He was certainly lying in a real bed; there could be no mistaking the feathers cushioning his body or the feel of the down pillow beneath his neck. And something about the room he was lying in smelled vaguely recognizable; he breathed in and smelled musk and a faint, familiar scent of lavender. He must be at Peartree; where else would smell at all familiar to him? He must be in his wife's room, in the bed…

He sighed deeply and opened his eyes fully. The sunlight streaming in through the window was still blinding, but he could tell that his guess had been right. As his eyes adjusted, he discerned a figure in the chair at the foot of the bed, silhouetted by the sunlight: his wife. He thought back to the previous morning, when she had thrown his mother's ring…but before he could contemplate the rather pleasant ending to that episode, his attention was attracted by a muffled shriek. Kat had leapt to her feet. Out of the glare of the window, he could see that she looked rather a mess: her hair was disheveled, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, drawing attention to the paleness of her face. But somehow—she was beautiful.

"You're—are you—how do you feel?" she spluttered, taking a step closer to the bed, her eyes sweeping up and down his body.

"Alive," he said dryly.

She stared at him; he could see now that her eyes were brighter blue than usual, rimmed in red. Had she been _crying_? Again? Did the woman ever—

But he didn't even have time to finish his thought before she launched herself across the bed at him, and his attention was rather more pleasurably engaged: the feel of her lips, and her hair beneath his hand, and the warmth of her body against his—

He pulled away abruptly, stifling a groan. Kat sat up straight, eyes wide. "What's wrong?"

Tavington breathed deeply, indicating the bandage bound around his torso.

Kat looked horrorstruck. "I'm so sorry—I forgot." A blush spread across her cheeks, and she moved away slightly. "I got carried away—I just wanted…" She trailed off, looking away from Tavington.

"Don't apologize," he said. "If I were not currently incapacitated, I assure you that I would not have objected."

Her cheeks reddened, but she met his gaze once more. "So…I guess that means you can't…?"

There was a vague interrogative quality to her half-sentence, and it took him a moment to grasp her insinuation, and another to get over his mild shock at her forwardness. "Not—not at present, no. I am sorry," he said, wondering how she had managed to get an apology from him. "But soon…"

To his surprise, she yawned. "Sorry," she said, noticing his questioning expression. "I didn't get much sleep last night. You got back so late, and there was a doctor here with you, and he said you'd be fine, but I was so worried... Anyway, now that I know you're okay, I'd better go sleep." She slid backwards toward the edge of the bed, but Tavington put a hand atop hers, and she paused, looking at him.

"Stay here. Please," he added as an afterthought.

"Are you sure? I mean, what if I accidentally—I don't know, hit you in my sleep or something?"

"I have slept in your room for some time now. I believe I would have noticed if you were harboring homicidal tendencies," he said, but she didn't look reassured. "You needn't worry; I'll be fine."

She stayed where she was for another moment, then, clearly having decided that he was right, stretched out next to him. She yawned again and smiled up at him. He smiled back and she nestled closer, laying her head on his shoulder. "Good night," she said, and he found himself echoing back, "Good night" before his sense of logic reminded him that it was midmorning. Ah, well. He leaned back into the pillows and closed his eyes once more, inhaling the faint scent of lavender that pervaded Kat's hair.

Just outside the bedroom door, General Cornwallis nodded knowingly. Pity Tavington had been so badly wounded yesterday; things might be going quite differently at the moment if his injury had been less severe! He smiled to himself and ate a lemon drop.

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"You're _certain_ you're all right?" said Lawrence for the hundredth time.

Bligh rolled his eyes. "I'm _fine_."

Lawrence eyed his companion's wounded shoulder. "It just looks so _dreadful_, I don't know how you bear it."

"It's only a flesh wound!" said Bligh. It was true, the bullet had only grazed him, but his shoulder actually hurt like the devil. He'd rather wear Lawrence's scarf for a week than admit this, however; he wasn't sure how much more matronly Lawrence could get, but he had no inclination to find out. One thing was certain, though: no matter how much help the Baron's lessons on muzzle management had been, Bligh would always be more comfortable with swords. "It feels fine. And you're not going to help anything by fussing over it."

"Well, fine then! There's no need to get annoyed about it! I was only trying to help," Lawrence said, clearly annoyed and slightly hurt.

"How's Daniel?" Bligh asked, trying to mollify his upset friend. But this only made matters worse.

"Still very poorly. The poor thing can hardly walk. His hindquarters just aren't what they should be." Lawrence looked as if he were about to cry, and Bligh felt terrible for inquiring after the horse, though he personally still thought Daniel would be fine: a re-shoeing and a week or so of recuperation, and Lawrence would have his beloved companion back. He decided to steer the topic away from Lawrence's horse.

"Have you heard anything about the Colonel?"

"Well, apparently he awoke this morning, but I've heard nothing beyond that. I haven't gotten to talk to Edward yet, but I'm sure he'll know. At any rate, I'm sure Mrs. Tavington is taking _very_ good care of him!" Lawrence's knowing grin implied exactly what sort of care he thought Mrs. Tavington was taking, and Bligh groaned inwardly: not that he wasn't happy for Mrs. Tavington and the Colonel, but Lawrence's ambition to follow in Cornwallis's footsteps as matchmaker extraordinaire really did not need to be fueled, in Bligh's opinion.

As he was pondering this unpleasant concept, Bligh's thoughts were interrupted by another round of Lawrence's chatter. "I had a letter from Androclus this morning, and he's just purchased a horse. I simply couldn't _believe_ it! I mean to say, the idea that Androclus should have gotten himself a horse, after what happened last time!"

"What happened last time?" said Bligh, curious in spite of his misgivings.

To his surprise, Lawrence's cheeks colored. "Well…perhaps I'd better not say."

"Why'd you even mention it then, eh?"

"I was merely illustrating my surprise that he would acquire another horse, that's all!"

Bligh rolled his eyes. Lawrence could be so frustratingly cagey at times. "Fine then," he said, lapsing back into silence as he regarded the map laid out on the desk in front of him. A sudden thought struck him. "Androclus rides again! You don't suppose he might be planning to purchase a commission?"

Lawrence looked horrified. "Androclus! A Dragoon!"

Bligh shrugged. "You've been wanting him to visit for ages now…perhaps he decided to come join you after all." He turned back to his map.

A few moments passed before Lawrence spoke again, and Bligh had become so absorbed in his work that it took him a few seconds to register what Lawrence was saying. "…and then I saw that Androclus was being fisted by—"

"Pardon?" Bligh interrupted, having no idea as to context.

"Androclus and that fellow Thoreau were engaging in fisticuffs!" said Lawrence, clearly thrilled that Bligh was interested. His excited look changed quickly to one of concern as he saw the pained expression on Bligh's face. "I say, are you _certain_ you're quite all right?"

"Fine," said Bligh through gritted teeth. If anything could be more painful than his shoulder, it was Lawrence.

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I awoke toward sunset and immediately checked to see that I hadn't inadvertently injured Tavington further in my sleep. No, he was still asleep, his breathing slow and peaceful, and I watched him for a moment. I wanted desperately to wake him up, but I knew that he needed to rest if he were going to recuperate quickly.

As I carefully extricated myself from the bed, I pondered for a moment the oddness of the situation I'd gotten myself into. Leaving aside for a moment the time travel bit, and the part where I'd been married off to a soldier whose main occupation was killing the forefathers of my country—and the fact that I'd fallen in love with him—perhaps the weirdest thing was that I still thought of him in terms of his last name, or his title. I couldn't imagine calling him William; I'd never heard anyone else do so. But I'd have to try it… Would he perhaps be more of a Will? Billy? I giggled to myself as I thought of his reaction if I tried to force some sort of diminutive nickname on the fearsome Colonel Tavington.

I wandered down the stairs and through the foyer, out onto the veranda, not seeing anyone but a sentry I didn't know. Might as well get some fresh air, if nobody was around to talk to…perhaps I'd go for a walk; there was still a good hour before sunset. Suddenly, I remembered having learned in my biology class that eucalyptus leaves were supposed to have healing properties. I decided to venture into the woods to find some; maybe I could whip up some sort of concoction that would help Tavington recuperate faster—and then…

As I marched into the woods, I thought about the odd progression of my life. At this juncture, I was almost perfectly happy: the only thing to jar my sense of contentment was the thought that—I just didn't belong here. I belonged in a world of hair dryers and hybrid cars and indoor plumbing…and yet, I found myself getting along just fine. And hadn't I always been drawn to the past? Why else would I have been so interested in American history?

Scanning the ground as I walked for any signs of eucalyptus—I wasn't positive what it looked like, but I figured I'd probably smell it—I lost track of time. Abruptly, I realized that it was getting dark very fast—and I had only a vague idea which direction the house was in. Panicked, I turned around quickly—and found myself face-to-face with a burly man with a huge musket.

I screamed. Immediately, other figures emerged out of the darkening trees around me, pistols trained on me. None of them was clad in anything that looked remotely like a British uniform. These were very clearly rebel militia.

I was in trouble, hardcore.

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	19. Now That It's Raining More Than Ever

"What the bloody hell is ew-kal-eye-tip?"

"Eucalyptus," I said again, testily. "It's a fragrant plant whose leaves have healing properties."

My captors looked at each other, then began to laugh. "Healing properties, eh?" guffawed the larger of the two men who were interrogating me. "And just who was needing healing?"

I kept my mouth shut. From the moment they had taken me, the rebels had been nothing but rude. For the most part, they had avoided manhandling me because I was a "lady," but they clearly thought very little of me, thinking as they did that I was a believer in the loyalist cause. Somewhere in the back of my mind it struck me as odd that I would accept this label when in fact my own sympathies were with their cause—but then again, they weren't behaving like the gentlemanly and heroic patriots I had been raised hearing about.

It was raining. It had been raining for the last day, ever since I had been kidnapped. The rebels had given me a blanket, but sleeping on the soft ground under the shelter of two trees was hardly what I was accustomed to. I was at the point where I'd kill for a hot shower.

Or company. The rebels I was with, in addition to being far from high society, were just unpleasant. I missed Peartree—my feather bed, yes, and the food, but also the companionship of Rutledge, the constant quibbling of Bligh and Lawrence, Cornwallis's questionable jokes—and Tavington. Every time I thought about him, I wanted to cry—almost as I had when I thought of Paris when I had first arrived here. But Tavington seemed more real to me, somehow, than Paris ever had.

Again, I thanked my brain for having had foresight to remove my wedding ring. I had pulled it off my hand almost immediately when I was taken and stuffed it into my dress; I knew if they realized that I was married to the fearsome Colonel Tavington, my captivity would only become worse. Also, I figured if they didn't know who I was, they would be all the more surprised when he showed up to rescue me.

Abruptly, I realized that my captors were addressing themselves to me once more. "If you ain't gonna talk, you won't get no supper," said the burly one. The other one nodded his agreement.

"Don't know what we're doing, interrogating a three-penny upright like her…better used for other purposes, eh?" And both of them started guffawing again, leaving me to my thoughts.

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Bligh wiped his face off with a sleeve and grimaced up at the sky. If only this bloody rain would stop—! On the other hand, he was sweating profusely, and the rain felt good on the back of his neck. He paused, furrowed his brow, and thrust his sword once more at Ensign Sir Henry Milner.

Sir Henry parried the thrust, then stepped to the side. "I say, can't we take a break? We've been at swordplay all afternoon!"

"_Nein_!" thundered the Baron from behind him. "You must alvays be practicing! _EXTREM WICHTIG_!"

Inwardly, Bligh applauded the Baron's role as slave driver. Sir Henry was entirely too cocky, and Bligh felt that he was just the man to take Milner down a peg, as it were. He took a deep breath, then thrust once more.

This time, though, Bligh was too quick for Sir Henry. Milner managed to deflect the blade, but it made contact with the cuff of his waistcoat, slicing off a bit of the precious lace that adorned his wrists. Sir Henry stopped short, stepped backward, and looked at Bligh in horror. "Look what you've done!"

"There was too much lace on the bloody coat anyway," grumbled Bligh, not in the mood for Sir Henry's theatrics.

"_Ja_," said the Baron, nodding wisely. "Bligh has given you a large favor. Zis lace vill attract enemy fire."

Bligh actually thought this point was slightly absurd, but who was he to argue with Günther? Sir Henry, however, was clearly quite distraught.

"This lace was worn by my great-grandfather, who had it from his grandfather, who served with Sir Francis Drake! I come from a long naval family, you know!" he spluttered.

"I _know_," said Bligh. "You scurvy cur."

Sir Henry looked highly affronted. "_What_ did you say?"

"Scurvy cur!" repeated Bligh, loudly.

Sir Henry took a step toward him. "I—erm—challenge you to—"

"_Moment_!" said the Baron firmly. "Zis is inefficiency! _Halt_!" He held a staying hand out in the direction of Sir Henry, who had taken another step toward Bligh.

But Sir Henry would not be stopped. "I will not be stopped! He has—oh, what's the saying—impugned my honor!"

Bligh took another step forward and poked Sir Henry in the chest with a lengthy finger. "I did you a favor by taking some of that lace off your jacket, and you want a duel, eh?"

"I do indeed!" said Sir Henry indignantly, removing Bligh's hand from his chest.

Bligh suddenly realized that another person had joined their party. Lawrence, panting, had just leapt off of Daniel and thrust himself between Bligh and Sir Henry, holding a staying hand out to each of them.

"I say, stop it, won't you?!" he said, obviously much agitated. "There are more important things to be fighting about!"

"Like what?" said Sir Henry huffily. "He's severed my lace!" He indicated his torn cuff, and Lawrence's anxious expression changed to one of sympathy.

But Bligh was no longer interested in Sir Henry's lace. The more he looked at Lawrence, the more it seemed like something was amiss: his scarf was askew, his shirt was hanging loosely out from under his waistcoat, his pants were mis-buttoned, and his usually carefully styled hair was disheveled. "What have you been up to, mate? Something wrong?"

Lawrence seemed to recall his earlier panic. "Yes! Well—I was at Peartree, playing a game of shuttlecocks with Rutledge, when Lord Cornwallis came out into the garden all in a tizzy. It seems Mrs. Tavington has been kidnapped!" He paused for a moment to allow this horrid news to sink in, then continued. "She apparently disappeared yesterday afternoon, only no-one knew, because we all thought she was in her bedroom with the Colonel! But he awoke this morning and insisted that the General send out a patrol; and sure enough, he found intelligence that she'd been taken by the rebel militia!"

Lawrence looked around at his audience. Bligh was frowning, rubbing his bristly chin with a colossal hand; Sir Henry was playing distractedly with his severed cuff, looking worried; and even the Baron looked rather less stoic than usual.

"Well? Why are you all standing there? We have a raid to mount!" Lawrence drew himself up and began giving orders, determined to galvanize Bligh, at least, into action, and ignoring for a moment the fact that he didn't outrank any of his companions. "I shall gather intelligence about Mrs. Tavington's whereabouts. Bligh! Fetch Captain Schoen and have him rally the Dragoons! Sir Henry! Make sure the horses are fit to ride—oh, and will you wash down Daniel, please? Günther—" Here he stopped, remembering that the Baron was his superior.

"_Lecker_," said the Baron. "Muzzle management. I vill be ready." Bligh looked uneasy at this, but said nothing.

"What about lunch?" said Sir Henry. "I'm famished! We'll have to eat something before we ride, and I heard there's chili to be had." Bligh and Lawrence exchanged knowing looks. "What?" said Sir Henry, baffled.

"He doesn't like chili," said Lawrence, indicating Bligh. Sir Henry looked aghast, but Bligh merely shrugged.

"Nasty, awkvard zing, soup," said the Baron unexpectedly, and they all nodded.

And with that, they dispersed to their tasks.

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Another two days passed with little change. It was still raining, my captors were still unpleasant, and I still missed Tavington; it was taking all of my willpower to maintain a positive outlook. But on the fourth morning of my captivity, I was awakened gruffly and told that we would be moving.

"Where? How far?" I was terrified; if Tavington hadn't found me yet, how could he do so if we were on the move?

"Ain't no need for you to know that," growled the wiry man who had shaken me awake. "Stay quiet, or you'll regret it." And with that, he moved away.

I was desperate—for news, for clean clothes, just for someone to talk to. I didn't bother trying not to cry as I stumbled deeper into the woods, just let the tears run freely down my cheeks. I could hardly see, but I couldn't wipe my eyes; my hands were bound tightly in front of me. I couldn't recall ever being so miserable. Now, more than ever, I wanted to go home—these woods that had seemed so exciting, so freeing when I was younger now felt like a leafy green prison. My rings—one on my right hand, the other in my bodice—again felt like they were weighing me down, as they had right after I'd married Tavington, but now I had no freedom to choose.

By the time we reached our new camp, I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. We had been on the move since early morning, and it was now late afternoon. I'd had nothing but a piece of bread at noon, and I was famished and covered in filth. I was surprised to see, though, that, unlike the place where I'd been held the last several nights, this one showed the signs of having been inhabited for some time. There were a few proper tents set up—nothing close to the orderly rows in the British camp, but it seemed to be more of a regular army location than simply militia.

Sure enough, I soon saw a soldier in a dark blue coat emerge from one of the tents before me. He was young—only a couple of years older than me—and strikingly handsome. He had dirty blond hair and a pleasant, strong-jawed face with sculpted cheekbones that could rival even Paris's. I felt a pang as I thought of Paris, but ignored it; I was in desperate need of help, and this young soldier looked serious, but kind—perhaps he would help me. I stole a glance about me and saw that my captors were otherwise engaged—washing their faces, changing their clothes, cramming food into their mouths—so I caught his eye and stepped forward.

"Pardon me, sir," I said, as politely as I could. He turned to look at me, and his eyes widened with what I could only assume was horror. I realized belatedly how awful I must look, having not bathed in four days and having been on the ground or slogging through swampy land that whole time. "Do you think there's any way I could have something to eat, and maybe a bath?"

"At your service, madam!" he said, eyes flicking to my wrists, which were still bound in front of me. He looked hesitant. "If you'll wait here one moment?"

He walked briskly over to my band of militia captors and engaged the wiry one in a brief but intense conversation. A moment later, he walked back to me. "The militia who have been holding you say that you are a traitor, madam."

"I am not a traitor!" I said hotly.

"Then what are you?" he asked calmly.

"A woman whose rights as an American have been infringed upon by my imprisonment," I said. "And if you're any sort of gentleman, you'll give me some food and some clean clothes."

He blinked, clearly startled by my vehemence, then grinned suddenly. His smile was genuine, and I felt at ease. "Private Gabriel Martin at your service," he said, bowing his head.

"Kat Fitzpatrick." My last name sounded somehow foreign to me now, even though I had had it for 18 years. I pushed the thought of Tavington away and tried very hard to smile back at Gabriel. "Sorry to be rude, but—where's the food?"

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Tavington sat upright, then immediately wished he hadn't. He ignored the throbbing pain in his abdomen and addressed himself to Rutledge, who was standing in front of him. "What the bloody hell do you mean, they mounted a raid?! Those incompetent louts couldn't rescue a burnt biscuit from an oven!"

Rutledge remained calm, his face impassive. "The lieutenants are quite competent, as you well know, Colonel," he drawled. "They'll do just fine."

Tavington threw the blankets off and, before he could pause to think better of it, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Rutledge took a step forward to stop him, but there was no need; the blood rushed dizzyingly to his head and, before he knew it, he was sitting on the bed again.

Rutledge had adopted a look of concern that Tavington found most infuriating. "Are you all right, my dear fellow?"

"Fine," lied Tavington through gritted teeth. "I am going to lead the raiding party."

"I beg your pardon, but you will do no such thing. I have orders from General Lord Cornwallis—and this is my house," added Rutledge, almost as an afterthought. "You are commanded to stay here, until such time as you are fit for service."

"And who's to stop me from going?" growled Tavington.

"I am," said Rutledge, smiling pleasantly, "by force, if necessary."

Tavington harrumphed. Though, now he thought about it, Rutledge could probably stop him when he was in this weak a state. He cursed to himself. "Those damned rebels!" he said aloud, not caring whether he insulted his companion. "If they lay a finger on my wife, I shall ensure that they are paddy whacked within an inch of their lives."

To his surprise, Rutledge looked somewhat sympathetic.

But Tavington didn't want sympathy. He wanted revenge.

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	20. Jockin on Them Haters

Four days later, it was still raining, and I was ready to admit that there was no hope of my being rescued. If Tavington hadn't found me yet, what was the chance that he was still looking? Even if he had managed to trail us to the first camp, there wasn't much hope that he could find our tracks—after a week of rain, they must have all been washed out. But if he had given up… I was beginning to wonder if there ever had been anything between us, or if I had imagined it all. I still loved him, and I had thought he might—perhaps not love me, but care for me… But now it seemed there was no hope, if he couldn't be bothered to come rescue me when I most needed him. Why had I thought it was worth it to stay here, not to try and get back home, to my family, to Paris?

The only thing that made me even attempt to stay optimistic was Gabriel. His quiet charm and gentlemanliness never failed to cheer me. I didn't see much of him; I was kept alone in a small tent at all times, but Gabriel brought me my meals and other necessities and, in the evening, stayed to talk to me for a few minutes. It was never more than polite small-talk, and we avoided any discussion of why I was there; I suspected that he had encouraged my captors to go easy on me. Maybe my calling myself an American had had an effect on his sympathies—I certainly hoped so, because if Tavington wasn't going to come and fetch me, I would need all the sympathy I could get. Perhaps, in time, I could convince Gabriel that I needed a horse, and escape by night…but to where? If I didn't matter to Tavington as I thought I did—and it would probably be easier for all of them, even Cornwallis, if I were out of their proverbial hair…but I had no idea how to get home, even if I did want to leave Tavington…

Just as I was coming back to this bleak thought, I heard Gabriel's voice outside my tent. He was talking to the sentry, but I couldn't make out the words. I blinked hard and swallowed, determined not to let my unhappy thoughts drag me down—Gabriel could well be my only hope for survival at this point.

A moment later, the tent flap swung forward, and Gabriel stepped in, drenched from the incessant rain. He was carrying a bowl full of stew, which he handed to me with a smile. "I do apologize for the lack of variety," he said ruefully.

"No worries, I'm sure it's great." I couldn't help but smile back; something about Gabriel's openness just made me happy. I sniffed the contents of the bowl cautiously and immediately lost what little appetite I had. I resisted a grimace and held the bowl out to Gabriel. "Want some?"

"Thank you, no, I've already eaten," he said, eyeing me somewhat suspiciously. "I don't suppose you're used to…"

"…a constant diet of stew?" I supplied. "No, not really, but I'll live. Builds character." Or so my father had always told me, anyway.

He laughed. "I hardly think you need to be concerned with a weakness of character, Miss Fitzpatrick."

"Call me Kat," I said without thinking. It was strange, wasn't it, how completely I had enveloped my new identity; but I just wasn't Jess here. Maybe I wasn't Jess anymore at all—that part of my life seemed so far away…

"Kat!" said Gabriel loudly, and I snapped back into the present.

"What? Is something wrong?" I said, alarmed.

"I'm sorry—you looked—I thought perhaps you had come over faint," he said, still regarding me with concern.

"I'm fine, I was just…thinking." He looked as though he might pursue the topic further, which I was not anxious for, so I preempted his question with my own. "Why did you decide to fight?"

To my surprise, he answered immediately, with no thought. "Because I am an American, and it is my duty."

"Is that how your family sees it, too?" I didn't know why I was prying, except that I was genuinely interested in how a man who seemed so sweet would willingly join a bloody revolution that, at least at the moment, seemed hopeless.

"My little brothers, certainly," he said, with a slight laugh. "My father…" He trailed off, staring into the distance, and I could tell immediately that I had hit on a painful subject.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"Please don't apologize," he said, turning his gaze back to me. "You didn't upset me; I am certainly not alone in being estranged from my father."

To my complete surprise, my eyes filled with tears. "Sorry," I said, trying to smile, "I just…miss my parents. It's my own fault for bringing it up, anyway." But try as I might, I couldn't stop the tears from overflowing, and soon I was full-out crying, about my parents, about my captivity, about the fact that even those whom I had come to love here had abandoned me to whatever fate awaited me.

Before I even knew what was happening, Gabriel's arms were around me, and I was crying into his coat, and for the first time since I had been kidnapped I felt safe, like everything might be okay again, and I never wanted to have to move, or to think, again. And a moment later I had raised my head to look at him, maybe to apologize, but it had gone wrong, and somehow I was kissing him—

Abruptly I came to my senses and pulled away, backing up as far as I could in the confined space. Gabriel looked as if I had slapped him, but I couldn't say anything; I could barely look at him. I just shook my head and stared down at the ground.

I heard an intake of breath, as though Gabriel were about to say something, and braced myself. But whatever it was, it was preemptively silenced by a yell from outside and—was that a gunshot? It must have been, for it was followed by several similar noises in quick succession. Stunned, I glanced at Gabriel, who looked just as shocked as I felt. He quickly regained his composure, however, and his demeanor seemed to harden. I could tell he was mentally preparing for battle.

"I…" I began, then stopped, not knowing what to say.

"I am sorry," he said simply, and was gone.

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Lieutenant Bligh was, to his extreme displeasure, rather impressed. His wayward compatriot had suddenly turned into the leader of the group: despite being outranked by Captain Schoen, the nominal leader of their raiding squadron, it was very clearly Lawrence who held the proverbial reins. Of course, it was still taking most of Bligh's considerable force of will not to slap Lawrence when he started prattling on about his latest lady friend or the old days with Androclus; but the fact remained that it was Lawrence who was keeping them going.

Though, to all appearances, there was no reason to continue with the mission. After what was approaching a week of searching, they were apparently no closer to rescuing Mrs. Tavington than they had been when they set out. They were, however, considerably wetter and dirtier; even Bligh, who was by no means the consummate bather that Lawrence was, had begun to feel decidedly ill-groomed. He resented Sir Henry more than ever for being permitted to stay behind in camp with nothing to do but wait for the word to lead a backup squadron if it should be needed.

Bligh stood pondering this as the squadron packed up to continue on the sixth morning of their search. Running a gargantuan hand across his bristled face, Bligh was forced to admit that he was quite in need of a shave. Just then, Lawrence appeared on the lower edge of his field of vision.

Bligh looked down into the face of his friend, who was also looking rather the worse for wear. "Something I can help you with?"

Lawrence's brow furrowed. "It's only—I must confess that I'm quite worried about Mrs. Tavington's welfare," he said, straightening his scarf with an air of distraction. "There's no telling what those damned rebels will have done to her by now!"

Bligh nodded impassively. "To say nothing of what the Colonel will do to _us_ if we return without her."

"Well, what do you suppose we should do?" Lawrence was looking increasingly desperate.

"I don't know, mate," said Bligh.

Lawrence harrumphed and flipped the edge of his scarf over his shoulder. "Some help _you_ are!" he said, and marched away to speak to Captain Schoen. A few minutes later they were off again.

By late afternoon, an odd desperation hung over the band of searchers; it was almost as if everyone had come to a silent agreement that if they hadn't found any sign of Mrs. Tavington by this evening, they would have to give up. As Bligh trudged through the mud, he considered where she might be. She couldn't have been taken very far very quickly; quite possibly the rebels had some hidden spot that they couldn't find because they weren't familiar with the lay of the land, but it seemed to Bligh that by now they had been over every parcel of land within thirty miles of Peartree.

Bligh jogged forward to catch up with Lawrence, who was leading the party, the other men marching silently behind. "Lawrence, mate—"

He was cut off by the hand that Lawrence abruptly threw out in front of him, and both of them halted, as did the queue of men behind them. "Shhh!" hissed Lawrence, staring intently ahead.

Bligh looked around but could see nothing. "What are you on about, eh?" he whispered, rather grumpily.

Lawrence responded by pulling out his musket and loading it. A moment later, he had darted forward and positioned himself (rather ridiculously, in Bligh's opinion) behind a tree, as though he were hiding from something.

Captain Schoen strode forward, ostensibly to see what all the fuss was about, but before anyone could speak, Lawrence stepped out from behind his tree, cocked his musket, pointed it in front of him and said, quite calmly, "Halt, soldier."

Within seconds, the Dragoons had surrounded the rebel: a blue-coated private, quite young and clearly terrified by the fearsome sight of Lawrence pointing a gun at him. Bligh was once more forcibly impressed at Lawrence—how in the world had he spotted the boy amidst the trees?

"Hands above your head, if you please," said Lawrence, and the boy obeyed without question. "What is your name, soldier?"

"Private," he responded.

"Your name is private? Oh, no, I see what you mean," said Lawrence, and Bligh snorted. Lawrence shot him a dirty look before turning back to the soldier. "Well—then—tell us where you make camp, private."

"Nice scarf," said the private, smirking. Lawrence looked momentarily pleased with himself, then settled back into military mode.

"What has that got to do with anything?" he said. "You have been captured, private, and I suggest that you cooperate!"

Bligh, figuring that Lawrence could use some backup, unsheathed his sword and held it to the soldier's temple. "Or we could just penetrate your mind forcibly," he grunted in what he was certain must be a threatening manner.

The boy gulped and moved back slightly. "I'll take you," he said. "It's not far."

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I couldn't stand it anymore; even two minutes of being in my tent alone, after what had just happened and with the noises that were occurring outside, was enough to drive me mad. I was getting out of here, now, no matter what. I was going to get back to Tavington if it killed me; even if he didn't love me, I still needed to see him again, if only to beat him down for his lack of gallantry. I was somewhat nervous about my lack of a weapon—a can of mace would go a long way in a situation like this—but, since I had to be content with what I had, I grabbed the heavy iron candlestick that Gabriel had brought me from the ground beside my bed, figuring it would be better than nothing. Taking a deep breath, I ducked outside my tiny prison of a tent, expecting to be met with resistance from my guards—and instead found myself at the edge of a battle scene.

It seemed that the British Army had at last found the rebel encampment. Over to my left, where the few large tents stood, blue-coated soldiers were scurrying about, some shouting orders, others grabbing weapons, others retreating into the sheltering woods. To my right was amassed a small group of green-coated—Dragoons? I spotted a flash of bright red amidst the smoke from the firing muskets and knew instantly that Lawrence, at least, had come to my rescue; a powerful surge of happiness rushed through me. This was where my loyalty lay: with the people I had lived with and learned to love, not with a mere idea, however powerful and tempting it might be.

I dropped the candlestick, gathered up my skirts, and was trying to decide how best to make my way around the edge of the battle scene to the Dragoons when an arm appeared from nowhere and wrapped itself around my waist from behind, while another hand came up to seize my hair and pull my neck back. I gasped—I was looking into the face of the same burly man who had first found me wandering in the woods. "Going somewhere, missy?" he sneered.

Without giving it much conscious thought, I spat in his face. He gave a growl of rage, but released his grip on my hair to wipe his face off. That was all I needed. Determined to free myself, I wrenched out his grip and spun around to face him, grabbing up the candlestick from the ground next to me as I did so. He lumbered toward me, but I darted to the side and brought the candlestick up to meet his head with as much force as I could muster. He toppled to the ground, moaning; I hadn't hit him quite hard enough to knock him out, obviously. Oh, well. I pulled his sword out of the sheath at his side and, though rather shocked at its heaviness, managed to hold it to his throat. He stopped rolling about and lay quite still, staring up at me with dull yet terrified eyes.

"_Don't_ call me missy," I said. "My name is _Mrs_. William Tavington."

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Tavington cursed to himself as his horse picked its way through the still-muddy woods; the wound in his abdomen felt as though it were on fire. Trust his wife to get herself lost somewhere impossible to get to—he had been riding about for two days now, and there was still no sign of her that he could find. In part this was because the continual rain had washed away any tracks that her rebel kidnappers might have left behind; but Tavington felt that, had he been permitted to lead the raiding party that his Dragoons had left with, they would have had her rescued by dinnertime. As it was, he really hadn't felt up to riding for two full days after they had left, though he would never have admitted it to anyone. The problem was that Cornwallis saw fit to keep him under house arrest for that whole time, and—much worse even than that—Rutledge had carried out his guard duty annoyingly well, keeping a constant watch on Tavington's movements. Tavington was certain that, if he hadn't been able to slip out of the house in the middle of the night as he had, Rutledge would certainly be without several of his vital organs: the idea of that strutting poppycock preventing Tavington from doing anything once he was healthy was unbearable to the point that Tavington would not have hesitated to run him through.

And now he had delayed too long, and the trail was cold. Tavington gained a grim sense of satisfaction, at least, from the fact that his convictions about Lawrence and Bligh had been borne out: the incompetent louts hadn't returned with Kat after nearly a week of searching. Any sort of reward was certainly out of the question now—Lawrence had been extraordinarily cocky lately, anyway, and Tavington felt that it was high time to return him to his proper place. Perhaps he would just burn the damned scarf this time.

While he was engaged by this pleasant thought, a familiar sound registered at the edge of Tavington's consciousness: gunfire. He urged the horse to a halt and listened carefully. It was unmistakable; there was a battle somewhere nearby, albeit obviously one on a small scale, and he had a feeling that it was the one he had been hoping for. If his suspicions were correct, perhaps he would let Lawrence keep his scarf after all. He ignored a sudden shock of burning pain in his abdomen and rode on.

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"Take _that_, you scoundrel!" Lawrence cried, slashing his weapon across the chest of a particularly aggressive rebel soldier with whom he was engaged in swordplay. The move did not quite have the effect he intended, however, and rather than sending his opponent tumbling to the ground bleeding, the man's coat and shirt merely burst open, leaving his skin intact.

Bligh, seeing no other immediate threat to their position, rolled his eyes. Lawrence was confusedly considering his now semi-naked opponent, clearly trying to decide on his next move, while the rebel, having ascertained that he was not mortally wounded, lumbered toward Lawrence with a roar. Bligh took a step forward and brought the hilt of his sword firmly against the back of the rebel's head, and he toppled forward, unconscious.

"That was what I _meant_ to do," said Lawrence, looking rather affronted that Bligh had relieved him of his quarry.

"Well, you weren't doing it very well," growled Bligh, nudging the man's head with his toe to make sure he wasn't just playing dead. "Reckon we should take his weapon?"

But something else had caught Lawrence's attention. "Look!" he said excitedly. "Mrs. Tavington!" And he whipped off his scarf and began to wave it in her direction.

She raised a hand in greeting and began to run toward them, but abruptly stopped short. A few of the Dragoons who had accompanied them were still engaged in combat, but Mrs. Tavington was meters away from them. A moment later Bligh realized why she had stopped running: a rebel had emerged out of the trees behind her and was now talking very seriously to her, though Bligh noticed that he didn't seem to be holding her against her will, or even touching her at all.

Lawrence, like Bligh, stood still, watching the scene before him. "Do you suppose we should go and rescue her?" he said uncertainly.

"Doesn't really look like she needs rescuing," grunted Bligh, for she had just extended a hand to the soldier, as though in supplication, and the rebel reached out and took her hand in his, bending down to kiss it.

"Oh, dear," said Lawrence, who had gone suddenly pale and was looking at something beyond Bligh's shoulder. "We may all be in need of a rescue."

Bligh whirled around and saw instantly what Lawrence meant: Colonel Tavington was galloping toward his wife, sword extended, with a murderous look on his face.

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I was feeling quite proud of myself when I saw Lawrence wave to me through the smoke from the guns that still hung in the air; I had settled for incapacitating my would-be captor with a well-aimed kick where it hurt. But before I could be reunited with the Dragoons, I heard a voice behind me. "Kat," Gabriel said.

I turned to face him as he emerged from the woods. "You shouldn't be here," I said. "It's not safe for you; they've taken the camp."

"I know," he said, "and I should have been off before this; these are needed elsewhere." He brandished a sheaf of papers in his left hand. "But I wanted to bid you farewell before I went—unless—unless you would rather not be returned to the British."

"I'm married, Gabriel," I said, knowing it was time to come out with it. His eyes widened, and he gaped at me. "My name is Kat Fitzpatrick Tavington."

"Tavington? I—I see," he stammered, growing a shade paler.

"I should have told you from the beginning. I'm sorry," I said, holding out my hand to him. "I was lonely, and scared, and you were—so wonderful to me. But I shouldn't have led you on."

Gabriel kissed my hand lightly and released it, smiling ruefully at me, though I could still see the shock in his face from my revelation. "I understand," he said. "We come from very different places, I suppose."

"You have no idea," I said fervently, though I knew Gabriel was merely referring to our loyalty to opposing sides of the conflict.

"It's been a pleasure, Mrs. Tavington," he said, an ironic note in his voice. He glanced over at the remains of the battle, and his face hardened. "I should have left the moment this skirmish began. I must be off before the—the British find me."

"Goodbye," I said, and he was astride his horse and away into the woods on my right almost before I could register it. I suddenly realized that Bligh and Lawrence must have seen my conversation with Gabriel and felt slightly uncomfortable, but I didn't have time to consider what to do before I heard the sound of galloping hooves to my left. I whirled around to face—

Tavington himself. Who had apparently just run his sword through an unfortunate rebel who had happened to be in his way. And who was looking at me rather as though he planned to do the same to me.

"Uh-oh," I said under my breath; this was not quite the happy reunion I had pictured. I took a few steps toward him, just as he leapt off of his horse—and crumpled to the ground.

I screamed and ran over to where he lay in the grass, collapsing next to him while Bligh and Lawrence converged on us from where they had stood earlier. Captain Schoen, who had been making sure that the rebels were all compromised, jogged over and began giving orders.

"Bligh! See to it that the lady is cared for. Lawrence! Bring the Colonel 'round." Lawrence looked chagrined but nodded, then knelt down beside Tavington and bent over him. Meanwhile, I felt myself being lifted to my feet by Bligh.

"You all right?" he said, looking almost concerned. I nodded and, unable to help myself, threw my arms around him. He patted me stiffly on the back, but still looked disconcerted when I released him.

"Thank you for coming to find me," I said.

He nodded stoically. "We're officers. We rescue people. Did the rebels—hurt you?"

"Not at all, other than feeding me nothing but stew," I said, and was surprised at the intensity of the look of distaste on Bligh's face. "No harm done, though," I added, just to make sure he understood. "Is—do you think the Colonel's—what's Lawrence doing, anyway?" I had just noticed that Lawrence now seemed to be dabbing at Tavington's face with his scarf.

Bligh grunted and wandered over to Lawrence, perhaps to see for himself what was going on, but a moment later it became unnecessary. Tavington blinked several times, sat up slowly, and then, once he realized what it was that was currently in a heap atop his chest, threw the scarf at Lawrence, who had leapt back in alarm. Tavington stood cautiously, swaying slightly, then straightened up to glare at his lieutenants. Captain Schoen, I noticed, was tending to Tavington's horse and steadfastly avoiding the gaze of his commander.

Tavington took a step toward Lawrence, who gave Bligh a peripheral supplicating glance but maintained his ground. "Lieutenant Lawrence," he drawled, "despite my manifold objections to regaining consciousness with that infernal accessory in my field of vision, I must say that I am impressed." Lawrence, who had clearly been expecting a rebuke, looked up hopefully. "I had it from Rutledge before I left Peartree that this raid was organized and commanded largely by you—with, of course, the assistance of your superiors," he said, nodding to Schoen. "You were painfully slow about it—I left Peartree two days ago and caught up with you—but the fact remains that you did accomplish your objective. Well done, Lieutenant." Lawrence looked more shocked than I had ever seen him. "And you, Bligh," Tavington said, turning to his other lieutenant. "Though of course—I see your sword remains unpolished. To it, Lieutenant!" And Bligh obediently wandered off, accompanied by an obviously much excited Lawrence.

Which left me, Tavington, Captain Schoen, and Tavington's horse. The latter wasn't much concerned with the tension that I, at least, could feel almost tangibly in the air, but after a moment of awkward silence, Schoen muttered something about grooming her and led her away.

"Thank you," I said, somewhat feebly.

"Whatever for?" he responded coolly, watching the progress of Captain Schoen and the horse instead of looking at me.

"For coming to rescue me," I said. I couldn't really say why I felt so awkward; it wasn't as though I had been doing anything wrong, but I couldn't shake the feeling that things were not as they should be.

"Strictly speaking, it was not I who came to your rescue," he said rather bitterly, still not looking at me.

"Because you were injured!" I said, indignant. "That wasn't your fault."

"It prevented me from coming after you immediately," he said, looking at me for the first time. "And, had I been permitted to leave at once, I assure you that I would not have allowed you to be in rebel custody for so long."

"It wasn't _that_ bad—I wasn't mistreated or anything," I said.

"No, I don't imagine you were." He said it quietly, but there was a venom in his voice I couldn't miss.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Might as well get this over with now—I was not going to be accused for something I hadn't done. Well, something I hadn't _really_ done.

His face was a mask; only the intensity of the icy blue eyes belied the rage he seemed to be holding in check. Which, I added to myself, was a distinct change from the Tavington I had first met; I wondered what could have prompted it?

"Nothing at all," he said, his tone glacial. "I am glad to have been a party to your rescue." He bowed slightly, taking my left hand as he did so and brushing his lips across it. I was once again shocked at how such a small gesture could send a shiver down my spine; but then he released my hand so rapidly that it was almost as if he were throwing it away from himself.

"What—what's wrong?" I said, almost not wanting to hear the answer.

"I must say, I find it rather insulting that you no longer see fit to wear my mother's wedding band," he said, almost conversationally. "But then, that would no doubt have been somewhat off-putting to your suitors."

"My suit—" I began, but he kept speaking as though I had said nothing.

"Yes, your suitors. I was under the impression that a marriage involved loyalty in its definition—but then, you seem always to have been in some doubt about the precise definition of a marriage," he continued calmly, as if he were making a practiced speech.

Abruptly, I realized what might be part of the problem. Not caring how strange it might look, I stuck my hand into the front of my dress and located the wedding band, putting it back on my finger. Tavington was now staring at me as though I were mad, but he quickly resumed his mask-like expression. "I didn't want them to know I was married…" I said, but I trailed off, because my reasoning now seemed flawed—why would it have mattered to my captors if I was married?

Tavington raised his eyebrows. "Naturally," he said pleasantly. "It would have been quite a hindrance to your social agenda. Coincidentally, how was the dispatch rider?" His deliberate coolness could not quite mask the tremor in his voice.

"How was—oh," I said, stupidly, realizing exactly what he meant, and what he had seen. I had been harboring some hope that he hadn't seen me with Gabriel, but now I was at a loss as to how to explain it away. I decided to play the injured wife card. "After what you pulled with the Brocklehurst sisters at the ball, you're going to accuse _me_ of infidelity?"

"I saw you with the dispatch rider, and by your own admission, you did not wish the rebels to know that you were married!" he said, his voice finally losing its glacial impartiality. "You must admit that the circumstances are somewhat suggestive!"

This was not going how I'd hoped, and now my temper was threatening to flare up. "And so was the scene at the ball, but I forgave you when you apologized! And I chose to trust you!"

"Forgive me, but I don't seem to recall your having apologized," he growled, having abandoned any attempt at disinterestedness.

He had a point there. I took a deep breath, put my temper in check, and closed my eyes. "I _am_ sorry," I said, and opened my eyes to look straight into his. There was an expression I couldn't read there, but it wasn't anger; he almost looked hurt. I was suddenly moved by a desire to be honest with him. "He—he kissed me," I said, willing myself not to look away. "Only for a second—it didn't mean anything—"

But the mask was already back in place. "Of course not," he said coolly. "A kiss never _means_ anything; it is a means to an end."

"That's not true," I said quietly, "and you know it."

"I would beg leave to differ with you on this point," he said, "but naturally, a _lady_ always knows best," and he turned away with an air of finality.

I wanted to run after him, to plead with him to forgive me, to tell him I loved him—but I had never felt so distant from him as I did at this moment. His raging tempers I could take, the disdain, the sarcasm—but this bitter iciness was too much. I turned away from his retreating back and sank to my knees in the muddy, trampled grass. Maybe this could never work. Maybe our personalities were simply irreconcilable.

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"Oh, _dear_," said Lawrence, pausing in his narrative about exactly how well-deserved his praise from Tavington had been to gaze at the Colonel's retreating form. "Where do you suppose he's going? That doesn't seem to have gone well, does it?"

"No," said Bligh.

"Well, you know what that means, don't you? Colonel and Mrs. Tavington require our services again, I think!" said Lawrence brightly, wrapping his scarf firmly about his neck and brushing an invisible speck of dirt from its fringe.

"No." Bligh uttered the syllable much more firmly this time.

"It went well last time, didn't it?" Lawrence said brightly.

"No."

"Oh, all right, it wasn't perfect—but we'll think of something better this time." Lawrence paused, then said disapprovingly, "I say, aren't you meant to be polishing your sword?"

Bligh groaned. If Lawrence was going to start giving him orders, his life was no longer worth living.

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	21. If I Wrote You a Love Letter

"Love letters!" Lawrence pronounced the words with such unadulterated joy that Bligh was momentarily unsure whether he'd heard correctly.

"Pardon?"

"Love letters!" Lawrence said again, looking around excitedly to his companions in Peartree's drawing room for support and stroking his scarf eagerly. As expected, Rutledge was nodding agreeably, Ensign Milner looked confused but enthusiastic, the Baron sat stoically in the corner, and Cornwallis seemed to be positively delighted.

"Brilliant!" boomed the General, standing up. His companions followed suit. "At last, we have a plan!"

"Sir?" said Bligh, who did not see how the phrase 'love letters' constituted a plan for much of anything.

"Oh, Bligh, don't be silly!" said Lawrence, with a maddening air of superiority. "We're going to write letters from the Colonel to Mrs. Tavington, and vice versa!"

"Mm," said Bligh, to whom this did not seem at all a good idea. He frowned. "Suppose they find out?"

Lawrence's visage clouded for a moment, and he turned to Cornwallis for support. "All the more reason to patch up their misunderstandings!" said the General jovially, and Lawrence nodded in agreement.

"And what if it—exacerbates the problem?" Bligh didn't wish to contradict the General outright, but this seemed to be nothing but a surefire way to incense Tavington.

"We'll sing, of course," drawled Rutledge.

"Sing?" Bligh blinked disbelievingly. Trust a fop like Rutledge to come up with a plan that involved song. Unsurprisingly, however, no one else in the room seemed surprised, let alone appalled, by the suggestion, as Bligh was.

Lawrence clapped his hands. "A song! That's just what we need! Tomorrow evening, say? That should give us enough time to write and send the letters, and have things come to a head, so to speak." He winked enormously, and everyone but Bligh chuckled knowingly.

"I don't think—" Bligh began, knowing full well he would not be permitted to finish his sentence.

Sure enough, he was interrupted by Cornwallis. "Nonsense, Lieutenant! A bit of poetry and song is precisely what those wayward lovebirds need!" He smiled to himself and ate a lemon drop.

Bligh, who remembered precisely what had happened the last time poetry and Tavington had been forcibly combined, was not quite so enthusiastic as his companions. By the time he had finished contemplating all of the alarming ways in which this "plan" of Lawrence's could go wrong and result in some sort of lasting injury to his nether regions, everyone was filing out of the drawing room. Lawrence, just behind Rutledge, was whistling "Yankee Doodle."

"Lawrence!" growled Bligh, and Lawrence ceased whistling and turned around to face him.

"Don't think you're going to dissuade anyone, even with all of your dire warnings!" he said. "Colonel and Mrs. Tavington deserve some marital bliss, and I for one intend to see that they get it!"

"You think _letters_ are going to help?" Bligh was incredulous. "Did you forget the last time we

tried that, eh?"

"We'll be much more careful this time, that's all!"

"No Androclus, you mean?" Bligh said sardonically.

"Well, Androclus always _did_ say what a fine script I had, now you mention it," said Lawrence. He caught a glimpse of Bligh's face and hurriedly added, "Joking!"

Bligh made an indistinct noise. Lawrence took this as a dismissal. "Father and I went down _dada dadaaa_…_hmm hmhmhm hm hmmm hmmm_…And there we saw the men and boys, as thick as hasty pudding…Yankee Doodle keep it up, Yankee Doodle daaaandy…"

Had Lawrence not been out of the reach of Bligh's hands at that juncture, Bligh felt it quite likely that they would have been around Lawrence's neck, scarf or no.

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My relationship with Tavington was not going well. Actually, it was pretty much nonexistent. I'd barely seen him since my rescue from the rebel camp; I hadn't even had a chance to brag to him about how I'd taken down a rebel armed only with a candlestick, which I felt would have increased his opinion of me. But he was never around. He'd been sleeping at the camp for the last few days, under the pretext that there was increased rebel activity in the area that he had to monitor.

The only time he did appear was for dinner—which, I suspected, was solely because Cornwallis had ordered him to do so—and he was miserable company. Just as in the beginning days of our consistently troublesome marriage, he ate quickly, talked not at all, and was out of the room practically before anyone noticed his arrival. I kept trying to corner him, but he showed up after we'd sat down, busied himself with perfecting the art of mastication, and then left before the rest of us were halfway through the main course.

And even if I had been able to confront him—what would I have said? The more I thought about it, the less excuse there was. Things had been going so well between us, and—yes, I had been lonely, and hopeless, when I'd been with the rebels, but—there didn't seem to be any ground for my kissing Gabriel. I had forgotten myself, and maybe I even _wanted_ to hurt Tavington—but why? And then why the hell had I told him about it? It wasn't like we had an honest relationship to begin with… Sometimes I couldn't figure myself out. But I was determined to get him to talk to me and make him understand that I truly was sorry, and that the last thing I wanted was for our relationship to regress as it had recently.

One morning, a few days after I had returned to Peartree, I awoke to find a silver tray, piled high with food and flowers, on my bedside table. I was utterly at a loss as to how it had come to be there. I hadn't been locking my door for the last few nights in the vain hope that Tavington would appear, but he obviously hadn't, and no one else ever came in my room. Whence, then, came the tray? I rubbed my eyes and peered more closely at it, only to find, buried under a pile of daisies (_Daisies? _Really?), an envelope, on the front of which was scribbled in spiky lettering, "My dear wife."

My jaw dropped open. Flowers and breakfast in bed, from Tavington, who wasn't even speaking to me? That struck me as highly unlikely, but… I realized, as I pried open the envelope, that I'd never seen his handwriting. I wouldn't have expected such a scrawl—Tavington struck me as someone who would have perfectly formed, aggressive handwriting, not the nearly-illegible lines I found when I unfurled the page.

_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_

_Thou art more lovely and more temperate._

_Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,_

_And summer's lease hath all too short a date._

_Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,_

_And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;_

_And every fair from fair some time declines,_

_By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;_

_But thy eternal summer shall not fade_

_Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;_

_Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,_

_When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:_

_So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,_

_So long lives this, and this gives life to thee._

And that was all. No accompanying note, no signature. I couldn't help myself; I burst out laughing. Whoever had sent this letter—and I suspected quite strongly that a certain be-scarfed lieutenant was behind it—it wasn't Tavington. Not only did I sincerely doubt that Tavington was a Shakespeare fan, but…well, the woman described in this particular sonnet had nothing at all in common with me, as I was sure Tavington would attest. In fact, "temperate" was probably one of the last words he'd use to describe me, right up there with "angelic." Maybe "loyal," too, the way things were going these days. Still, despite my continued frustration about my lack of progress with Tavington, I couldn't help but be amused—and touched that someone, even if it was just Lawrence, cared enough to try to patch up my marital relations. I wondered, as I munched on a biscuit from the tray, if perhaps Tavington had gotten a similar note?

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"I _knew_ we should have gone with Petrarch!" Lawrence said, obviously irritated. "But you _insisted_—"

"I still don't think she speaks Italian, mate," said Bligh, ignoring his tent-mate's pacing as he made tiny notes on the map spread out in front of him.

"Well, these colonists are hardly more likely to know Shakespeare, are they? We might as well have given her a nice few stanzas from the collected verses of Alcaeus!"

"Calm down," said Bligh calmly. "I'm sure Mrs. Tavington liked the poem."

"It's a _sonnet_," grumbled Lawrence. "And what if she couldn't read it?"

"Why wouldn't she be able to read, eh?"

"Well, I'm sure she can read in general, but even _I_ have trouble reading your handwriting! It's so untidy!" Lawrence's voice was becoming higher-pitched by the second.

"I never tried to stop you using your _admirable script_," growled Bligh, somewhat offended. "I only wrote it because the General ordered me to, if you'll remember."

"Yes, because I couldn't very well write both of them, could I? That would have been rather obvious, wouldn't it? And anyway, if you'll recall, the poem we chose for the Colonel was rather more sophisticated."

"You could say that," muttered Bligh grumpily.

Lawrence made an annoyed _tsk_-ing noise. "I'm just a bit concerned about the reception of your note, that's all! If I had sent such an abomination to any of my lady friends…"

Bligh rolled his eyes. "Give it up, mate. You've got other things to worry about."

"You're right!" Lawrence stopped pacing and clapped a hand dramatically to his forehead, obviously panicked. "I'd completely forgotten about our little concert this evening! I must make sure that everyone is prepared!"

With that, he rushed out of the tent, leaving Bligh to ponder alone how the Colonel had reacted to his own note.

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Colonel William Tavington was perhaps more severely displeased than he could ever remember being. Almost immediately upon stepping out of his tent this morning—in itself a rather unpleasant experience, as the ground was still muddy from the consistent days of rain they'd been having—he was accosted by a messenger, who had presented him with an envelope. "From Peartree, sir," he said, bowing shortly and then speeding away.

Tavington had assumed that "From Peartree" implied some order from Cornwallis. He was, therefore, not a little shocked when, turning the envelope over, he saw the words "My dear husband" in the most shockingly feminine script he had ever seen. He could barely contain his rage as he tore open the letter. "Dear husband," now, was he?

But the situation only became more horrifying once he unfolded the page. The script was awful enough in itself, but the words—

_That one seems to me the equal of the gods, _

_Who sits in thy presence and hears near him_

_Thy sweet voice and lovely laughter; _

_That indeed makes my heart beat fast in my bosom. _

_For when I see thee even a little I am bereft of utterance, _

_My tongue is useless and at once a subtle fire races under my skin, _

_My eyes see nothing, my ears ring, _

_Sweat pours forth and all my body is seized with trembling. _

_I am paler than dried grass _

_And seem in my madness little better than dead, _

_But I must dare all ..._

Had the calligraphy not been so clearly feminine, Tavington's initial impulse would have been to believe that his foppish lieutenants were meddling in his affairs once more. Unpleasant though it was, however, he would simply have to come to terms with the fact that his wife was, aside from being a brazen hussy overburdened with sentimentality, quite possibly mentally unstable.

Tavington crumpled up the letter with a snarl and shoved it into his pocket. It would have to be dealt with later—tonight, most likely. But the thing that bothered him most, more even than the penmanship or the lamentable choice of classical poetry, was that—he truly wanted to forgive her. Cursing, he ducked outside his tent once more and stomped off through the mud.

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I stood up from the chair by the window in my sewing room and stretched, yawning. Glad as I was to be back at Peartree, I couldn't deny that life was getting somewhat—boring. The primary issue was that Tavington wasn't talking to me, but I'd also seen virtually no one in the last couple of days. Even Rutledge seemed too busy for me, though I couldn't see what could possibly be occupying him.

I wandered down the stairs to the dining room, trailing my hand idly down the banastre. I was hungry, and I figured it was about dinner time, but, though I definitely smelled food, I couldn't hear any voices. Odd.

I entered the dining room to find a steaming pot of something that looked suspiciously like—chocolate fondue? Had that even been invented yet? I tore my eyes away from the pot in the middle of the table and saw—only Tavington, seated at the head of the table and looking royally pissed off. The letter I'd received that morning popped back into my head abruptly, and I wondered if perhaps that was the reason he looked so very annoyed. "Hello," I said evenly, not expecting him to answer.

"I must confess that I'm somewhat disappointed," he said, quite threateningly for someone purporting to be disappointed. "I thought that your greeting would be rather more effusive."

"Excuse me?" I had no idea what he was getting at, and I was wary; the last thing I wanted to do was to start another argument now that he was finally talking to me again.

"I rather expected to be called your 'dear husband' or something of the sort. Though perhaps you only use endearments in _written correspondence_?" He growled the last words in a particularly venomous tone, and I suddenly had a thought.

"Oh! You got a letter?"

"Unfortunately," he agreed. "And I must say, even I could not have guessed how prurient a mind you have."

"What?" I was lost again, though I had a sinking feeling that perhaps the verse in the letter sent to Tavington, if that was indeed what had happened, was even less applicable than the one in my own.

"While I am honored to know that 'all your body is seized with trembling' in my presence, I must say that the honor is lessened when I consider just how many men must have that effect on you," he drawled. "I can hardly imagine it was only the dispatch rider that you—_ahem_—became acquainted with."

"I am not going to stand here and take this from you," I said, my voice choked with rage. "Like you've never done a damn thing wrong." I practically ran out of the room and up the stairs to my room, slamming the door so hard the house shook. I was utterly at a loss. How could my entire relationship with Tavington be destroyed by a letter I didn't write? I had apologized for what happened with Gabriel, and if he would have let me, I would have explained further. But then again, it wasn't like he deserved an apology. I was so _sick_ of his insinuations about me: not only had I thought we were past that, but it was his ongoing refusal to trust me that was really getting to me.

But before I'd even had time to decide whether I wanted to scream, cry, or possibly even give way to a fit of hysterical laughter, the door burst open behind me and Tavington stormed in, slamming it behind him even more violently than I had.

"How dare you insinuate that I have been unfaithful?" he hissed.

"Haven't we already had this conversation? As I recall, you actually implied we weren't really married!"

"And as _I_ recall, it was established that I hadn't acted in any way that would constitute a violation of the marriage vow! You, on the other hand…" Tavington looked positively dangerous now, but I was far from scared; actually, I was fairly close to just throwing a punch at him. Suddenly, I spotted the letter I'd received that morning and had a flash of inspiration. I grabbed it from the bedside table and brandished it at Tavington.

"I was under the impression you wanted to patch things up between us," I said, mustering all of my self-control and making my voice sound as flirtatious as I could. "When I got your letter this morning…"

"_My_ letter?" he said, obviously nonplussed.

"Yes, the one in which you called me more temperate than a summer's day? It was a _beautiful_ sonnet. And then I'm treated like this…" I trailed off, enjoying the fury clearly building within Tavington.

He snatched the letter from my grasp before I could stop him and ran his eyes over the jumbled writing, then turned back to me.

"It's so _lovely_," I simpered, now much more amused than enraged. "Imagine my surprise, Colonel Tavington, when I received that reception from you downstairs!"

Oddly, it was my use of his name that really seemed to set him off. "Allow me to assure you, madam, that—I have never, _never_, written a verse! A poet is unworthy of this hat—" he gestured to his head, then apparently realized his head was bare and abandoned that argument, growing ever redder— "Anyway, you know me to be quite terse! The letter _you_ wrote, on the other hand—it was painful, painful to the extreme—made me ashamed to wear a wedding band! I've never, in the whole of my life, seen—seen—" He seemed to be at a loss for words, but I was suddenly struck by something odd.

"_Wait_," I said, bewildered. "Did you just—were you—rhyming?"

"Certainly not!" He looked horribly affronted at the very idea.

"You_ were_. That, hat—terse, verse—hand, band—and then extreme, seen? I mean, it was sort of poetic license, but—there's no way you can tell me now that you didn't write that letter!"

Tavington was now so alarmingly red in the face I was afraid he might have some sort of fit. He opened his mouth, undoubtedly to confirm that he was no poet, when we heard a horrible sound outside. We both froze and then, as it continued, went over to peer out the window at the commotion below.

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Bligh was standing in the appointed meeting spot, but everyone else was missing. Just as he was beginning to doubt whether he'd gotten the plan right, Rutledge and Lawrence emerged around the corner. Rutledge was bowing vigorously at the strings of his violin, and Lawrence was playing "Yankee Doodle" on his piccolo, but that was not what caught Bligh's attention.

"Why are you wearing that flouncy—flouncy—" Bligh sputtered, at a loss for words. He didn't think Lawrence had ever looked more like a macaroni. Rutledge was, of course, dandified as usual, but the _cuffs_ on Lawrence's jacket... "Have you been borrowing Milner's clothes, eh?"

"And what if I have?" said Lawrence testily, straightening defiantly so that the cuffs flounced a bit more.

Bligh rolled his eyes and went back to cleaning out the inside of his cowbell. Rutledge had just finished tuning his violin when Bligh heard a door slam, quite hard, within the house.

Lawrence clapped his hands with excitement, nearly dropping his piccolo in the process. "Lovely!" he whispered loudly, clearly overcome with joy.

The door-slamming sound came once more, harder this time, and Bligh was utterly at a loss. "What's lovely, eh?"

"They're obviously on the road to romance, as it were," drawled Rutledge, and he and Lawrence shared a knowing glance.

Bligh remained unconvinced. "It sounds like they're shouting at each other, mate."

All three paused to listen. Indeed, the sounds that were wafting into the stretch of garden beneath Mrs. Tavington's window were anything but those of conjugal bliss; the Colonel did _not_ sound pleased. Lawrence frowned, no longer convinced, but before he had time to make any further attempts to assuage Bligh's lingering doubts about the soundness of their plan, another group of people emerged from around the corner of the house to join them under the window, led by Cornwallis, who was looking extremely merry as he toted a small harp. Behind him were the Baron von Pilsner, and Ensign Milner, who was holding in front of him a trombone that had clearly just been polished.

"_Extrem wichtig_," said the Baron, marching determinedly to the front of their little band. "Ve are ready, _ja_?"

"_Ja_—I mean, yes," said Lawrence, flustered as always by the Baron.

The Baron gave him an approving glance. "_Lecker_," he said, and, raising his triangle, gave it three sharp taps.

A cacophony burst forth immediately. Bligh, who had never had any formal musical training, was attempting to follow the lead of the Baron's triangle but felt that he was not quite capable of keeping the beat. Rutledge was obviously lost in his own world as he fiddled, and the General seemed able only to give his harp an occasional stroke with no pattern that Bligh could discern. Lawrence and Sir Henry, meanwhile, after a short and discordant duet of piccolo and trombone, lowered their instruments and began to sing.

"_Black, black, bl_—"

"Lawrence! She's blonde!" Bligh said rather loudly over the din.

Lawrence and Sir Henry looked at each other, alarmed, and then restarted their song with even more gusto than before.

"_Blonde, blonde, blonde!_

_Is the color of my true love's hair_

_Her lips are like a rose so fair_

_And the prettiest face and the neatest hands._

_I love the grass whereon she stands_

_She with the wondrous hair._"

As they sang, the dissonance only increased. Bligh felt that Lawrence and Milner were rather trying to outdo one another, and Lawrence's voice became ever more shrill, while Milner's deepened progressively. Bligh chanced a look up at the window just before the end of the verse and saw, to his surprise, the faces of both the Colonel and his wife. Whistling to his bandmates, he pointed upward with a Brobdignagian hand, and gradually, everyone ceased their playing as they observed the scene in the window.

Mrs. Tavington looked as if she were trying quite hard not to laugh—or cry—and the Colonel was positively apoplectic. "I—you—LAWRENCE!" he bawled. "I shall have your ascot for this!"

"I say, Colonel, that's a nice way to treat your well-wishers, what?" said Cornwallis reprovingly.

Tavington's face became redder still. "My apologies, sir—I find myself somewhat—at a loss."

The General chuckled and waved a hand up toward his colonel. "No harm done, Tavington! We only wanted to ensure that your evening with the lady would be pleasant. No doubt our humble song has done its trick! I have always found music to be quite magical where affairs of the heart are concerned." He grew rather emotional toward the end of this speech and dabbed at his eyes with a large handkerchief.

After a moment's awkward silence, Rutledge spoke. "Shall we go then, sir, as our task has been fulfilled?"

Cornwallis straightened up, his genial attitude returning. "I do believe so! Let us all retire…to bed, to bed! Good evening, Colonel! Mrs. Tavington!" He laughed merrily and waved his handkerchief in the direction of Mrs. Tavington, who still seemed to be full of suppressed emotion, and led his band back around to the front of the house.

The Baron was first to break the silence. "Ich war _total_ überraschend," he said, and Bligh agreed, though he felt that perhaps the Colonel was even more surprised than the Baron had been.

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The moment they'd marched out of sight, I collapsed onto the floor in a heap and gave in to a bout of laughter that became increasingly hysterical. After a minute or two, I composed myself enough to look at Tavington.

He looked nothing so much as surprised, and I couldn't imagine that my laughing like a crazy person could have helped much. "Sorry," I said, standing and wiping the tears away from my eyes. I extended a hand to him. "Truce?"

But in a moment, the surprise was gone, and the cold exterior was back. "Your servant, madam," he said, bowing over my hand and brushing it briefly with his lips—and then he was gone.

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**AN: The sonnet in "Tavington's" letter is, of course, borrowed from Shakespeare (Sonnet 18), and the one in the letter to Tavington is Sappho's. (The **_**horrid**_** sequence that Tavington blurts at Kat is obviously my own—apologies.) And the songs may be found at .com/america/**


	22. All Aboard the Spontaneous Express

**AN: This chapter contains adult themes. While I do not think it's deserving of a higher rating, please tell me if anyone feels that I should switch it to M, and I'll do it gladly. My intent is not to offend anyone!**

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Not only was his wife a colonist—not only was she of Irish extraction—but somehow, Cornwallis had managed to marry Tavington off to a woman who might quite possibly be insane. She'd written him that horrid poetry and then denied it, while accusing him of _rhyming_—and perhaps most alarmingly, she seemed to have found that ridiculous display outside _amusing_!

Tavington grimaced at his reflection in the small, warped glass perched atop the table in his tent, then shoved the mirror aside and stood up. He'd had quite enough of this whole situation. Even more worrying than her antics was the fact that it had taken most of his considerable self-control to harden his heart against her absurd laughter and resist taking her into his arms and—

"_No_," said Tavington aloud to himself through gritted teeth. This would _not_ do. He would have to find some manner of distracting himself; his frustration about Kat was overwhelming. Throwing on his waistcoat, he marched out of his tent. Bligh and Lawrence were going to pay.

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As chance would have it, the opportunity for Tavington to avenge himself on the lieutenants came quite soon. Two days after the incident with the singing—an interval during which Tavington took great care not to see his wife at all—a squadron of Dragoons, during a routine patrol of the woods around camp, stumbled upon three rebel soldiers and, through some miracle, managed to take them captive. It wasn't clear to Tavington how they had succeeded at this, as Lawrence and Bligh were amongst the patrol; but succeed they had, and the rebels were securely held in the British camp. For several weeks, vague reports had been reaching the British high command that the rebel forces were amassing forces somewhere nearby, but Tavington had been unsuccessful in procuring further information. Here, though, was his chance—to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.

"Bligh! Lawrence!" Tavington growled their names, and the lieutenants snapped to attention as he strode toward them.

"Sir?" said Lawrence, a quaver in his voice as he attempted futilely to rearrange his scarf so that it would be less visible.

Tavington ignored this and came to a halt in front of the pair of fops, glaring unblinkingly. "Well, lieutenants," he said menacingly, and left it there.

Bligh said nothing, just stood stoically as always; Lawrence, Tavington was glad to note, was quite literally quaking in the natty tatting decorating his shirt, and had given up all attempt to hide his scarf. Tavington let his words linger ominously on the air for a moment longer, then continued. "You have managed to outdo yourselves," he said, taking care to keep the threatening tone in his voice. "You have embarrassed yourselves, the General—"

"—and you?" chirped Lawrence. He clearly realized immediately that he had said something horribly wrong; his eyes widened and he clapped his hands over his mouth in dismay.

Tavington took a step closer to Lawrence. "Do not for a moment presume that you understand my emotions, Lieutenant," he growled. If a prinking dandy like Lawrence had picked up on his embarrassment…no, it must have simply been a shot in the dark. Nonetheless, he would pay. "You have crossed more lines than a drunk donkey in the middle of a battlefield. The only reason—the _only_ reason—that you have not been stripped of your commission is the fact that you were _fortunate_ enough to have accompanied the party that captured those rebels yesterday."

Lawrence looked as though he were tempted to interject something here, but Tavington saw Bligh nudge him. Lawrence wisely shut his mouth, and Tavington continued his speech with a threatening glance in the direction of his scarf. "Therefore, you shall be responsible for juicing the rebels for information. General Cornwallis wants them alive; aside from that, I do not care how you go about it. I need every last drop of information that can be squeezed from them. Report back to me with the fruits of your labor, no later than sundown." And with that, he strode away once more.

Lawrence stared after the Colonel, his mouth hanging open slightly. "Rather full of metaphors today, isn't he? Almost…poetic, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, shove it, you old bean," said Bligh, marching away from Lawrence. "I hate juice."

"I love juice!" muttered Lawrence, annoyed, staring at Bligh's retreating back.

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An hour later, uniforms starched head to toe and weaponry freshly polished, the lieutenants were ready to take on the task appointed them. "Rather mean of the Colonel not to give us more credit for catching the rebels, don't you think?" said Lawrence, for what Bligh estimated was the dozenth time.

"Aye," said Bligh. "How do you reckon we should go about this?"

Lawrence stroked his chin thoughtfully. Bligh was just about to point out that he didn't in fact have a beard when Lawrence preempted him. "I say! Do you remember the time you fisted Sir Henry?"

Bligh grunted noncommittally.

"Well, I think you were rather over the top then," said Lawrence haughtily. "If you'd been trying to extract information from him, you'd have got nothing to show for it."

"What do you suggest then, if you're so clever?"

Lawrence had clearly been waiting for such an implied compliment. "We'll take turns with the rebels!" he said. "I'll be the really virile paragon of manliness, and you can be the nice one."

"The nice one," said Bligh disbelievingly.

"Yes, you know, you'll oil them down, and then I'll—"

"_Oil them_ _down_?"

"Oh, you know what I mean—butter them up," said Lawrence, irritated. "Anyway—you'll butter them up, and then I'll come back in and pump them for information."

"I'll bet you will," muttered Bligh.

Lawrence clapped his hands. "Right then—let's get going, shall we?"

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"Name!" barked Lawrence, his face mere inches away from that of one of the three rebels they had captured. The boy had to be a private, and he looked scared at the fearsome sight of Lawrence looming in front of him; but a quick glance to his companions seemed to stiffen his resolve, and he said nothing.

"I see," said Lawrence, affecting an ironic tone as he straightened up. "You think your friends will protect you? Solidarity in the face of danger? Well, allow me to make it very clear to you, _boy_—" here his face again zoomed in next to the private's— "these silly games will do nothing to help you. You will all succumb to pressure, and you shall rue the day you crossed me."

Bligh, who was skulking beneath a tree some feet behind Lawrence, rather felt that this speech would have been better received had Lawrence not turned around and grinned proudly at him at the end of it. Try as he might, Lawrence was obviously not fit to play Tavington, though he certainly had sufficient examples to go by.

"Take the other two away," said Lawrence to the guards who had accompanied the prisoners to this secluded spot in the woods. "I'll deal with this one first." He gave the private his best Tavington-esque sneer as the boy, petrified, watched his companions being led away. "Frightened, are you? You should be. I'll have you paying homage to me by the time we're finished," he said, and marched back to where Bligh stood, obviously pleased with himself.

"Your turn!" he whispered loudly.

"But you've only just started," said Bligh.

"Yes, but he's clearly not going to talk to me, is he? He's terrified!" Lawrence looked delighted at the thought.

"All right, but I don't see how this is going to work," said Bligh with a sigh. He walked over to the prisoner. "What's your name, eh?"

"Smith," said the private, with a terrified look at Lawrence, who was now sharpening his sword ferociously while occasionally glancing meaningfully in their direction.

"Bligh," said Bligh, who felt it would be best to establish some rapport with the prisoner if any good were to come out of Lawrence's plan. "So, mate, where is your army massing troops?"

"Dunno," said Smith, trembling as he watched Lawrence, now finished sharpening, run his hand down the length of his sword. "I'm just a private."

"Well, have you heard—" began Bligh, but he was soon interrupted by Lawrence, who was striding back toward them.

"That's quite enough!" said Lawrence. "The prisoner's had his fun. Now, back to it!" He extended his sword in the direction of Smith's head. Smith looked close to tears but said nothing.

Bligh rolled his eyes and pulled Lawrence away from the boy. "I was getting somewhere, mate," he whispered impatiently, "and then you came prancing back in with your sword and he shut right up!"

"Well, I can't help his nebbish ways!" said Lawrence, just as impatiently. "It's not _my_ fault I'm so imposing!"

"Have it your way," said Bligh, and Lawrence marched back to the prisoner. At this rate, there was no way they'd have the information Tavington needed by sundown.

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Amazingly, however, Smith cracked—all it took was a few of Lawrence's threats to stick his sword into various parts of Smith's anatomy, and the boy let out everything he had heard about the battle that was being planned.

"Camden, sir," said Lawrence triumphantly to Tavington as soon as they reached the Colonel's tent just after noon. "The prisoners had orders to join the rebel army on the road tonight so that they could attack the camp at Camden tomorrow."

"Camden," repeated Tavington.

"Yes, sir, that was the cock and thrust of it," said Lawrence.

"Are you certain? There can be no room for mistakes, Lieutenant."

"Certain, sir," replied Lawrence, and Bligh nodded in agreement. He couldn't believe Lawrence's tactics had actually worked, but Smith had not been lying, of that he was sure, and the other two rebels had confirmed the report.

"I shall inform Lord Cornwallis," said Tavington, moving to exit his tent. "Tell Captain Schoen to ready the Dragoons to ride at sunrise. Good work, lieutenants." And he strode off into the gathering darkness.

"He didn't seem very impressed," said Lawrence, pouting.

"Don't worry about it, mate," said Bligh, clapping Lawrence on the shoulder. "We'd better go make sure everything's in order."

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"What's going _on_?" I whined.

Rutledge, the only person who would listen to me—the only person who was around, really—remained bent over his needlepoint. "I'm sure it will all be fine, Mrs. Tavington," he said calmly.

I sighed loudly. This was pretty much the same response I'd been getting for the last several days, from everyone. I _knew _something was going on, but Cornwallis and the Baron were only around for dinner and refused to tell me anything; I hadn't seen Lawrence or Bligh at all since the evening of the singing. Or, actually, Tavington. I was incredibly frustrated—I wasn't just going to give up on him, but man, was I tempted. He was just—so—_impossible_.

I sighed again and leapt up from my chair with a ferocity that startled Rutledge into looking up from the carrot he was stitching into his cushion. "I'm going—outside," I announced.

"Would you like company?" I could tell Rutledge didn't really want to come with me. Well, fine then.

"No, thank you," I said dramatically, and flounced out of the drawing room into the foyer.

I had every intention of going outside—it was a beautiful day and, for mid-August in South Carolina, not at all unreasonably hot. But once I stepped into the hall, I heard Cornwallis's voice emanating from Rutledge's study, which Cornwallis had lately been using as an office. "—sure, Colonel? If the rebels are misleading us…"

"I spoke with the prisoners myself after I heard the lieutenants' report," came the response, a hint of sarcasm coming into the tone at the mention of the lieutenants. I froze—what was Tavington doing here? I couldn't help myself; I crept closer to listen. "Tomorrow at dawn, the rebels plan to ambush us at Camden."

Cornwallis made a disgruntled noise. "The Dragoons are ready to ride?"

"Yes, Milord."

"Very well. Back to camp, then, Tavington. I shall be there as soon as I finish my business here."

"Yes, Milord," said Tavington again, and exited the room. He shut the door behind him, turned—and found himself face to face with me.

"So you're going to fight tomorrow," I growled. "Were you planning to talk to me at all beforehand?"

The surprise on his face at seeing me quickly disappeared, and his eyes narrowed at my question. "Eavesdropping is a dangerous way to gather information," he replied coolly, trying to step past me to walk to the front door.

I blocked his path. "That doesn't answer my question."

He raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

"So you were just going to go have this battle—maybe get hurt—and not _tell_ me?" I forced my voice not to rise.

"War is an affair of men," he said. "You heard the General, I presume—my orders are to return to camp. I beg your pardon." He brushed past me and marched out the front door, leaving me fuming in silence behind him.

An affair of _men_? He said it like it wouldn't even impact me if he—or the lieutenants—or anyone else I knew—was injured tomorrow! Like my life was so completely separate from his! My mind was made up practically before he was out the door—I was going to Camden tomorrow too. I couldn't fight—I was too confused about where my loyalties lay—but I could at least help nurse the wounded.

And as for Tavington—when that battle was over, he would have me to answer to.

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Squinting ahead in the early morning sunlight, Bligh thought for a moment his eyes were fooling him when he first spotted the rowboat near the closer edge of a rather large pond. He broke away from his squadron and rode over to the side of the pond. He groaned when he realized the figure in the boat was a familiar one. Here they were, preparing for what looked to be a serious battle, and that fop Milner was having a pleasant early morning punt. Bligh whistled at Milner. "What the bloody hell are you doing, eh?"

"It's a strategically important pond!" replied Ensign Milner testily, rowing slightly away from Bligh. "Someone's got to look after it!"

"You've got to be kidding me," said Bligh disbelievingly. "This is ridiculous."

"I don't give the orders!" cried Milner. "I only care about strategy!"

Bligh couldn't help laughing. The sight of Milner in that rowboat…

"You know, if you're laughing when you're on patrol in the woods, you'll give away your position," said Milner, obviously annoyed that he wasn't being taken seriously.

Bligh snorted. "Whatever floats your boat…"

"Oh, get ye abaft!" said Milner, obviously done with the conversation.

Bligh guided his horse around and rode back toward where the Dragoons were amassed, feeling rather cheered. Whatever might be coming, he had the knowledge that somewhere nearby, Ensign Henry Milner was doing his best to serve King and country in a rowboat on a strategic pond. Bligh grinned to himself and began to whistle, "What can you do with a drunken sailor."

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The sun was high in the sky before I found where the hospital tent was set up. I had stolen out of the house almost at dawn, clad in riding trousers and one of Rutledge's less frilly shirts, and ridden toward the camp, figuring that it would be safer to ride near people I knew, just in case. But the Dragoons had already left by the time I got there, so I was left to find another squadron to follow. I tied the horse's reins to a tree and slipped off toward the edge of the camp, taking care to remain hidden. Almost as soon as I got within hearing range, though, I heard exactly what I was hoping to—Tavington's name. I repositioned myself behind the shelter of a large bush so I could see.

A tall, strikingly handsome man with long, dark red hair was standing and addressing a group of several dozen men in front of him. All of them were wearing kilts. "Tavington will be overseeing us as well as the Green Dragoons," said the man, his voice deep with a rich Scottish accent. "Let us make a name for the 71st Highlanders, aye?"

"Aye!" came the resounding response. But I was stuck on what he had called his men. The 71st Highlanders…the sports teams at my high school had been called the New Glasgow Patriots, but our archrivals, from 71st High, had been the Highlanders. Suddenly it all made sense to me. I would follow these men, and they would lead me to Tavington.

It wasn't quite as easy as I'd expected, though, to remain hidden and still keep track of the Highlanders. I'd left my horse near the camp—she'd be safe there, and I'd be much less obvious. Good thing I had, too—the Highlanders stayed on the road, so I was always a few feet off, picking my way through the brush, and the horse would have given me away.

Finally, after what felt like hours, we reached what I could only assume to be Camden. It looked just like the models of Revolutionary War battles I'd had to make in middle school: all across the field in front of me were rows upon rows of uniformed soldiers, looking for all the world like the little plastic figures that had always adorned my school projects. It was so hard for me to realize that this was real.

I took a deep breath and scanned the scene before me. The Highlanders had led me to the back right corner of the field; off in the distance, across a strip of empty grass that was clearly no-man's land, I could see the Americans, and ahead of me, I saw the lines of kilted men I had followed here. There was not a hint of the green that signaled the Dragoons, though, and I wondered how it was possible that they weren't here yet. But I couldn't worry about that now; the cannons were already booming, and if the battle had started, that meant that there were already casualties—I had to find the hospital tent.

Fortunately, with all the noise and confusion of the battle, no one noticed me flitting about the outskirts of the field, searching for wherever they were taking the wounded. At long last, I spotted a hastily assembled tent around which there was great activity; I saw a soldier helping his friend, who was limping badly, and I knew I'd found it. I steeled myself and walked toward it, prepared to do whatever I could—but just then I heard a thundering noise behind me and whirled around to see what it was.

It was the Dragoons. Tavington rode in front, and he was past me almost before I recognized him, but my heart skipped a beat when I saw him in all of his uniformed glory atop his magnificent horse. A moment later I glimpsed the red of Lawrence's scarf, and saw Bligh riding next to him. And then they were past, and all I could do was hope they would be all right at the end of the day.

Taking another deep breath, I marched into the tent. My senses were momentarily stunned: the smell was horrible, and I could hear cries of pain, and there was blood everywhere. "Get a grip," I told myself. It wasn't like I'd never seen blood before, and I'd never been squeamish. After observing for a moment, I picked the doctor who seemed to be in charge and approached him.

"Excuse me," I said.

He paused in his rounds and stared at me, taking in my strange attire. "Who are you, madam, and what are you doing here?"

"I am Mrs. Colonel Tavington, and I intend to help," I said firmly. "Tell me where to start."

Clearly flabbergasted, the doctor took a moment to recover. "Do you have any experience with medicine—Mrs. Tavington?"

"Well…" I actually hadn't really considered this. I'd been a lifeguard for the past few summers, so I had taken plenty of first aid courses in my day, but… "A little."

The doctor pursed his lips and considered me for a moment, then sighed. "As we're shorthanded…perhaps you could start there?" He indicated the limping soldier I had seen come in earlier, who was now lying on a stretcher and whimpering. I nodded, content to follow whatever orders he gave.

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The next few hours flew by. I made tourniquets, cleaned wounds, and generally tried to make the wounded more comfortable, avoiding the really serious injuries as best I could. None of the Dragoons made their way into the tent, which I assumed was a good thing. In the late afternoon I found myself tending to the handsome leader of the Highlanders I had followed that morning. He was older than I had thought at first, but still very handsome. Even lying on the stretcher, bleeding profusely from the right shoulder, he looked powerful.

He waved me away as I began to dab at his shoulder with a clean cloth. "Ye needn't worry about me," he said, his Scottish accent even stronger than I had noticed earlier. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," I said, grabbing a wet cloth and washing his shoulder. "I'll just wrap it up, and then you can go, but you'll need to be careful. You've lost a lot of blood."

He studied me as I bent over him. "What's your name, lass?"

"Kat," I said, continuing my work. But the Scotsman kept looking at me.

"Ye remind me of my wife, Kat," he said. "Tell me, where do ye come from?"

I sighed and began to prepare a bandage. "Not far, but—sometimes it feels like another world." I didn't know why this stranger had put me in a confessional mood, but somehow, I trusted him.

"My wife is an outlander as well," he said. "When I first met her, it felt like we came from different worlds, like ye said. But—I love her more than life." He was silent for a moment, obviously considering his wife.

Without my noticing, my hands had ceased to wrap the bandage around his shoulder. I couldn't help but be moved by the Scotsman's clear devotion to and love for his wife; it was what I wanted, really, if I was being honest with myself, but the way things were going with Tavington, I'd never get there. The incident at Peartree the night before stole back into my mind and I was reminded just how irreconcilable Tavington and I really were.

"Are ye all right, lass?" The gentle question pulled me back into the real world. I brushed away a tear I didn't know I'd shed and looked at him.

"Honestly? No." Again, I felt the inexplicable urge to confide in this man, maybe because I simply had no one I could talk to about Tavington. I took a deep breath and continued to bandage as I talked. "I think I'm in love—with my husband—but he definitely doesn't feel the same way about me. He won't even talk to me anymore, because I—well, I accidentally kissed someone else, but it was because I'd been kidnapped and I thought he didn't even care about me enough to come rescue me, and I was trying to hurt him, I guess, but I've been trying to apologize ever since and he won't listen."

I didn't even realize that I comprehended the situation until I'd babbled it all out. There was an almost amused glint in the Highlander's eyes, but he didn't seem at all shocked—which, in retrospect, was in itself rather surprising. "I see," he said, ignoring the blush that had suddenly spread across my face. "Well, all I can say is—love doesna have to exist before a wedding. In my experience, ye have to get to know your husband—or wife—first, and then it takes care of itself." He smiled introspectively at the end of his speech, and I thought that perhaps his experience might have been first-hand.

"Well—you're all set," I said, patting his shoulder. He stood up cautiously, towering over me.

"That feels much better," he said. "Thank ye."

"You're welcome," I said. "Would you mind telling me—how is the battle going?"

He looked mildly surprised. "It's over, else I'd never have come in here. The Americans have retreated."

"Oh!" I said. "Then I need to go!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Go? Don't ye have a job to be doing here?"

"Well—technically, I'm not supposed to be here," I said, wondering again why I was confiding in this man. "If my husband finds out…"

"I see," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Ye really are a lot like my wife, Kat."

I smiled at him. "I assume that's a good thing?"

"It's a verra good thing," he assured me. "Good luck."

He was gone before I thought to wonder why he had wished me luck.

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I thought about the Scotsman all the way back to Peartree. That _was_ what I wanted—the love that was so obvious in the man's talk about his wife. Not, of course, that I expected it from Tavington, but—if he'd only talk to me again, perhaps I could make him care for me. The problem was that, despite how awful he'd been to me lately, I couldn't help but love him. Another apology would do no good; I would have to _do_ something, and soon, to fix things between us. And it would have to be drastic…

It took me longer than I'd expected to walk from Camden back to the camp, and by the time I climbed onto my poor abandoned horse, I was exhausted. It was nearly dark by the time I got back to Peartree, and fortunately, a groom took the horse to the stables for me, because I wasn't convinced I could make it all the way there and back without succumbing to the urge to collapse. It took a superhuman effort for me to make it up the stairs, and I couldn't wait to fall onto my bed and sleep. I stumbled down the hall and into my room, shutting the door behind me—and nearly screamed when I realized I wasn't alone.

Tavington stood before me, hair untied, shirt unbuttoned and riding boots off, looking royally pissed off.

"Where have you been?" he said without preamble.

"Out," I said evasively, suddenly far from tired. I was so glad to see him alive and well that I forgot for a moment that that unmistakable tone in his voice meant we were in for another fight.

"That is evident. Out where?" He looked as though he had a shrewd idea, so I decided to level with him.

"I was at Camden."

He took a step toward me. "What were you doing at Camden?" His voice was low and dangerous, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

"I was helping nurse the wounded." I was starting to get defensive now.

"Who gave you permission to be at Camden?" he growled.

"No one had to give me permission! Everyone I care about was there, and I wasn't going to be left behind!" Angry though I was, I couldn't help but notice how attractive Tavington was, with his shirt open and that fire in his eyes…. I almost wished that he would just stop talking and kiss me. As though he'd read my mind, his gaze dropped to my mouth, and my breath caught in my throat—but it was over in a moment, and his burning eyes met mine again.

"You are my wife," he snarled, "and it is my duty to protect you."

"I can protect myself! We've had this conversation before—I'm not going to do what you tell me to just because I'm supposed to have a sense of 'wifely duty'!"

He looked like he might hit me. His usually icy eyes were blazing with an emotion I couldn't read. He took a step forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. I braced myself for the inevitable—but it never came. His face moved ever closer to mine, and his voice was menacing. "Sometimes I just want to—" He seemed at a loss for words.

"What?" I said, challengingly. "Sometimes you just want to what? You're so—" But before I could get any further, his mouth was on mine. At first I was frozen where I stood, but then warmth coursed through my entire body. He was kissing me like I'd never been kissed before. My blood was on fire. I couldn't think. I felt my fingers entwined in his hair without knowing how they got there, while his hands ran down my side and to my hips, eventually grasping the backside of my trousers. His powerful grip drew my hips ever closer to his, until the extent of his desire became unmistakably clear.

Abruptly, he wrenched away from me. Before I could protest, he pulled his shirt off and then drew me back to him, one hand securely around me while the other worked at the buttons on his breeches. I slid a hand down his broad chest, letting my fingers linger on his skin as they reached the edge of his breeches. He snatched my wrist, and his gaze locked onto mine. The intensity was still there, but there was something else burning in the blue depths of his eyes. Had I more time or fewer distractions, I might have concluded that he was a man who longed for—for something more. But at that moment, I could only conclude that he _was_ a man. And he was mine. Without taking his eyes off mine, he brought my wrist to his lips and tenderly kissed the soft skin. His tantalizing lips remained for what seemed an almost unbearable duration before he finally blinked and redirected his kiss to my mouth.

I knew then that there was no going back. I had always pictured my first time with Paris, but this—this felt so right. But I had to tell him. I turned my face away halfheartedly, trying to focus on something other than his lips, hot against my cheek, my ear. "This is my—first time—" I breathed.

"Of course. I am your first husband," he whispered. I drew a sharp breath as I felt his other hand, which had been resting on my hip, travel under the hem of my disheveled shirt. His fingers traced my spine, making me shiver, my back arching instinctively to be closer to him. I wanted to feel my skin against his, wanted to rid myself of this troublesome clothing that was keeping me from him. Seeming to read my thoughts, Tavington turned his attention to my shirt. He paused to feel out every curve as he made his way to my breasts. I never realized how large his hands were until they covered me entirely. Unable to stop myself, I let out a soft moan. Tavington smirked, realizing that he had finally won—he was firmly in control, and I was in no position to protest. Kissing my neck fleetingly, he tugged the shirt over my head.

Another moan escaped me as his burning lips made contact with the tingling skin on my shoulder, and my hands splayed across his back. He murmured something incomprehensible as he ran his fingertips across my breasts and down my ribcage, until at last he began to unbutton my riding trousers. I gave in to my senses, oblivious to everything but Tavington, the feel of his body against mine as he gently urged my trousers off. As his arms encircled me once more, I realized that his own breeches were still on, and I slid my hands down his muscled abdomen, intent on removing the only obstacle remaining between us. As I tugged at the bothersome clothing, he kissed me, hard, and lifted me off of my feet. In one smooth motion he finished what I had started and, leaving his breeches in a pile on the floor, maneuvered me onto my bed—_our_ bed. For once, I was certain of exactly what I wanted.

Before I was fully cognizant of what was happening—we were one.

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**AN: I'm trying to be historically accurate, but there are a few errors surrounding Camden, which I hope you'll forgive. The Highlanders, though, are real—but I did borrow their leader from a novel (mega points to anyone who recognizes him!).**


	23. Too Much Candy Gonna Rot Your Soul

I awoke the next morning just as the first traces of light were appearing in the sky. I hadn't slept much, but I somehow felt more awake—and more alive—than I could ever remember feeling. I stretched languidly, enjoying my newfound awareness of my body, and turned my head toward my husband. To my surprise, he too was awake.

"Good morning," he whispered, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Morning," I whispered back, smiling at him. "Did you sleep well?"

He pulled me toward him and kissed me lightly on the mouth. "Very," he murmured into my hair. The slight bristles around his lips tickled me as he kissed my cheek, my lips, my collarbone. My blood began to pound as my breathing grew faster.

Tavington, though, seemed utterly at ease as he continued his exploration of my anatomy, pursuing his self-appointed task with a consummate thoroughness that befitted the commander of the Green Dragoons. When I could breathe again, I suddenly realized that I had no name with which to reprimand him, as I was now uncertain as to what I should call him. "_William!_" I said insistently, past caring that I'd never referred to him as anything but Colonel. Desperate times, desperate measures.

"_What_ did you say?" That had gotten his attention, at least: he was now staring at me, looking almost confused.

"That's your name, isn't it? William?""

"No one has called me by my first name since—for years," he said, brow furrowed.

"Well, what else would I call you?" I said coyly, sidling closer to him.

"You may call me _Sir_," he growled, but I was not to be intimidated.

"Like hell, _William_." His eyes flashed dangerously, but he said nothing, so I kept goading. "Or do you prefer Will? Billy, perhaps? You look like a Billy to—"

Tavington cut me off, as he had the night before, with the simple expedient of covering my mouth with his. By the time I was free to speak again, I'd quite forgotten what we had been talking about.

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Colonel William Tavington was most severely pleased as he slipped out of his wife's room later that morning, leaving her asleep in his wake. After his victory the night before with his wife, there could be no doubt that he was well on the way to producing an heir, Kat's unfortunate obsession with his first name notwithstanding. If his son was not already begotten, he certainly would be soon—there would be no more impediments, Tavington would see to that. Talking of impediments, actually—Tavington paused in the foyer of Peartree, suddenly pensive—what about that bloody dispatch rider she'd admitted to kissing? Tavington's eyebrows drew together ominously as he considered the soldier, remembering that night, the night he had gotten her back only to lose her again...

"_He—he kissed me," Kat said, her eyes pleading with Tavington, but he felt only an instant and icy rage. "Only for a second—it didn't mean anything—"_

_He had made some cutting remark, one that he knew would hurt her, and walked away from her almost immediately, not pausing to wonder if she was telling the truth, if perhaps it really hadn't meant anything. The only way to ensure that it would not happen again was to dispose of the rebel, decisively and without hesitation—and keep well clear of Kat in the interim._

_He had his orders, of course: see that the British wounded are sent to hospital, gather up any intelligence that may be had. But when he arrived with a squadron of Dragoons at the plantation that had served as a makeshift infirmary the next morning, he had a single objective in mind: exacting his revenge upon the traitor who had tried to steal his wife._

_He had dispensed with the British wounded and then turned his attention to the family—perhaps it had not been strictly necessary to burn the home, but it was best not to show these colonials any sign of weakness—and then summarily dispensed with the slaves. But then the incompetent lout of a lieutenant, worse even than Lawrence, who had been in command prior to his arrival had handed him rebel dispatches, and Tavington knew: the dispatch rider was here, now._

"_Who carried this?" he asked, and then again, when the lieutenant showed himself to be even more incompetent than expected, more insistently. "Who carried this?!"_

_The rebel stepped out, and Tavington's rage boiled over. He had only had a moment's glimpse of the traitor, from several hundred meters away—but that was enough. The rebel was speaking, but Tavington heard none of what he said. "Take this one to Camden; he is a spy. Hang him, put his body on display."_

_The owner of the plantation had tried to argue with him then, but Tavington had ignored him as well. "Destroy the livestock; save the horses for the Dragoons."_

"_Colonel, this is a uniformed dispatch rider, carrying a marked case," said the plantation owner, striding over to where Tavington sat atop his horse. "He cannot be held as a spy."_

"_We're not going to hold him," said Tavington pleasantly. "We're going to hang him."_

"_Colonel—"_

"_Father!" said the dispatch rider, and Tavington instantly felt an intense hatred for the man standing next to him._

"_I see," said Tavington quietly. "He's your son. Perhaps you should have taught him something of loyalty."_

"_Colonel, I beg you, please reconsider," said the man, but Tavington's mind was made up. "By the rules of war—"_

"_The rules of war?" Tavington had had enough. He pulled out his pistol and, cocking it, pointed it at the man's head. "Would you like a lesson, sir, in the rules of war?" Reconsidering, he directed his pistol toward the family assembled on the porch. "Or perhaps your children would?"_

_The man backed toward his family, arms outstretched. "No lesson is necessary," he said, voice cracking._

_Tavington felt no pity, only hatred; and so, when the lieutenant asked him what was to be done with the rebel wounded, he ordered them to be killed._

_And that would have been an end to it: the dispatch rider killed, the rest of the family ruined properly, had not that foolish boy tried to free his brother. Tavington had not hesitated, merely shot the boy in the back as he ran; he had felt a sense of vindication, for who was to say that this boy would not have grown into the same reckless scum his elder brother was? Tavington met the anguished gaze of the father as he held his dying son. "Stupid boy," he said coldly, and rode away, mission accomplished._

Tavington had been certain that that particular problem had been resolved, and then—he had heard the reports of someone, this _Ghost_, killing twenty men and freeing the dispatch rider. Aside from professional satisfaction, Tavington had resolved to kill the rebel himself—and this Ghost, while he was at it. And in the meantime, Kat would bear _his_ heir, and not the bastard child of a traitor to king and country.

Humming tunelessly, Tavington proceeded forward, allowing himself a triumphant smile as he threw open the front door.

Most unfortunately for him, Lieutenant Lawrence was standing there, grinning like an idiot. "Good morning, Colonel Tavington!" he said brightly. "How did you sleep?"

Lawrence never knew what hit him.

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"And how did you sleep last night, my dear Mrs. Tavington?" Rutledge said, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at me.

I sighed inwardly. Best to get this over with now. "Very well, thank you," I said, and turned my attention back to the vat of sugary pear juice in front of me. I had had a severe craving for sugar that morning, and, faced with the prospect of a day of every person at Peartree asking me veiled questions about my activities the night before, I decided to engage Rutledge in my quest to make lollipops. I'd deflected his questions for a while, as we set up a sort of assembly line in the garden; but he could only be sidetracked for so long, and it was now mid-afternoon.

I pulled the skewer out of the vat, allowing the sugary mass to harden a bit before I dipped it in for another layer. "Do you think I left this in long enough?"

But Rutledge was not to be deterred. "I noticed that you and the Colonel had quite a lie-in this morning," he drawled. "Were you both feeling all right?"

"Fine, thank you," I said curtly, poking the stick back into the steaming liquid.

He peered at me around the pot of juice. "And do you feel well now? It is rather warm out, and I'm sure you're rather tired from exerting yourself."

"I'm _fine_," I growled, ignoring his implication. "I've lived in South Carolina long enough to be used to the weather."

Rutledge smiled pleasantly. "Please don't take offense, madam. I only meant to suggest that perhaps women in your condition should take care to keep out of the hot afternoon sun whenever possible."

Women in my _condition_? What the hell did he mean by that? "I'm perfectly all right," I said, trying to sound polite. "I think my lollipop's done. I'll be inside," I said, and stomped back into the house, taking my skewer of hardened sugar with me.

I wandered through the house, sucking idly at my lollipop and thinking about nothing in particular. My thoughts turned to Tavington, and I allowed myself a moment of reflection. Suddenly I heard a commotion coming from the front veranda through the partially opened front door, and I snapped back to the present.

"Colonel _Tavington_? You don't say!" The voice was Lawrence's, and he sounded surprised.

But before I could make a conscious decision to eavesdrop, Cornwallis's voice caught my attention. "My dear Mrs. Tavington!" I looked over to see him striding toward me across the foyer. "Did you sleep well last night?"

In the moment I hesitated before answering the inevitably recurring question, Lawrence's shocked voice sounded again. "He allowed them to _surrender_? After he shot that child just last week?"

I had no time to be shocked: Cornwallis, who had just popped a lemon drop into his mouth, choked suddenly on it. He began to cough loudly. A moment later, the front door opened fully and Lawrence burst into the foyer, Bligh and Ensign Milner bringing up the rear. Lawrence took in the General, now red in the face, and me, frozen where I stood, and began to panic. "Help! Oh, dear, help! The General's choking! Oh, dear me, what shall we do? _Help_!"

"Shut it, you short-heeled wench!" said Bligh gruffly, stepping toward the ailing General.

But Ensign Milner got there first. He planted himself in an unyielding stance behind Cornwallis and, wrapping his arms tightly around the General's ample stomach, thrust firmly.

My astonishment only increased as I watched: if I hadn't known better, I would have said that Milner was performing the Heimlich on Cornwallis. After a few thrusts, the lemon drop flew out of Cornwallis's mouth, and Milner stepped away. I shook myself mentally and looked around: Lawrence was watching the tableau unfold with unmitigated alarm, hands clapped to his mouth in distress, but Bligh looked nothing so much as skeptical. I wondered briefly at Bligh's odd reaction, but I had no time for reflection before the General was straightening up, harrumphing, and the moment of panic was past.

"What were you talking about?" I was surprised to hear my own voice sound so coolly even.

"T-t-talking about?" stammered Lawrence, clearly much disturbed by my question.

"Outside. You said Colonel Tavington 'shot a child.' What happened?" I sounded almost robotic to my own ears.

"Don't just stand there, Lieutenant, tell us!" thundered Cornwallis, who appeared rather embarrassed by the whole situation.

"B-Bligh here tells me that the Colonel took rebel troops prisoner at Camden!" said Lawrence glibly, clearly trying to gloss over the situation. "I was merely surprised at his—his—magnanimity."

"That wasn't what I was referring to, and you know it," I said. "Tell me what happened."

But it was Bligh who stepped forward. "After we rescued you from the rebels, Colonel Tavington discovered rebel dispatches at the house where our wounded were being held. The rebel who carried them was there, and the Colonel arrested him. His younger brother attacked the soldier holding him. Colonel Tavington shot him."

I heard General Cornwallis shouting something, saw flashes of motion around me, but I felt completely distant from the situation. Surely—it couldn't be true. The man I knew—the man I loved—would _never_ do such a horrible thing—couldn't possibly have killed an innocent child.

"Mrs. Tavington!" said Cornwallis loudly, and I got the sense it wasn't the first time he had said my name. I focused my attention on him. "Mrs. Tavington, I am sure your husband wasn't remotely in the wrong. Things happen, you know—in battle—and Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence were just discussing the mercy the Colonel showed rebel troops at Camden—it seems he's turned over a new leaf—"

"Of course," I said calmly. "I understand, General."

But as I turned and walked up the stairs, still affecting an air of composure I did not feel, rage boiled inside me. If Tavington thought that he could be a murderer by day and still hope to seduce me by night—he had another think coming.

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When Colonel Tavington arrived at Peartree that evening, he was feeling rather pleased with the world. It had been a long day, to be sure, but he had the comfort of his wife's arms to look forward to. Perhaps they could arrange for dinner to be sent upstairs…?

But this happy thought fled his mind as soon as he walked into the foyer and encountered a crowd of people. Glancing around, Tavington saw no sign of Kat, but immediately noted the presence of Bligh, Lawrence, and that nancing Ensign they insisted upon keeping around, as well as the Baron, Rutledge, and a towering figure he did not recognize. None of this did anything to improve his already somewhat discontented spirits. To make matters worse, he heard his superior's voice booming out to his right.

"Tavington! So glad you could join us, my dear fellow—though naturally you wouldn't dream of leaving your charming wife unattended!" Tavington's smile was somewhat strained, but the General didn't seem to notice. "I daresay you remember this gentleman, Colonel?"

Cornwallis indicated a man standing several feet to his left, whom Tavington had failed to notice upon his entrance. When Tavington recognized the officer, shining in his foppish grandeur, he nearly groaned aloud.

"George Augustus Francis, Lord Rawdon," drawled the officer, a supercilious smile spreading across his face as he surreptitiously smoothed his dapper coif.

"We've met, your Lordship," growled Tavington. "Several times."

"Have we indeed?" Rawdon appeared puzzled, apparently having forgotten that Tavington had served under his command in multiple battles during the Southern campaign. "Ah, yes, how could I have forgotten? Rupert, isn't it?"

"Colonel William Tavington," growled Tavington.

"Yes, I was close, was I?" Rawdon peered around Tavington as though searching for something. "Where is your wife, good sir? I hear tell she's quite the fresh daisy!"

Tavington wasn't entirely certain what this meant, but he felt sure he could guess. "If you'll pardon me, Milord," he said, and left Rawdon and Cornwallis roaring with laughter behind him. But before he could march up the stairs to fetch his wife, she appeared and glided down them.

She looked even prettier than usual, her blonde hair swept back from her face and cascading down her back, her blue eyes and pale skin set off by a vibrant green gown he hadn't seen before. She reached the bottom of the stairs and, smiling radiantly, took in Tavington and his companions. "Good evening," she said, and Tavington moved forward to greet her properly. But the next moment, she had brushed past him and was offering a hand to Rawdon.

"Mrs. Tavington, may I present Lord Rawdon?" The General was smiling so widely he might have been trying to make a match between the two, and Tavington was not impressed.

"Delighted to meet you, Lord Rawdon," said Kat sweetly.

"Actually, it's George Augustus Francis, Lord Rawdon, future Earl of Moira and Baron Hastings, but please call me Lord Rawdon," said that gentleman. Tavington couldn't help but notice that Rawdon's gaze was fixed upon Kat's chest. "I must confess, I find myself quite transfixed by your gown, Mrs. Tavington. Would you tell me where I may look? I wouldn't wish to seem impolite."

Tavington's grimace grew ever more pronounced, but his wife merely blushed charmingly and laughed. He strutted toward Rawdon, intending to break up their cozy little gathering and demand a proper greeting from Kat, but before he could reach them—

"Shall we dine, then?" said Cornwallis grandly.

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I couldn't deny that, though my intent was merely to distance myself from Tavington, I found myself charmed by Rawdon. He was what I imagined to be the archetypal upper-crust British officer: a charismatic haberdasher, rather more intelligent than he made himself out to be. Granted, his fixation with my cleavage was a little off-putting, but I was more amused than offended. And his presence made it much easier to avoid Tavington, who spent dinner looking daggers at us from the other end of the table.

Our companions, meanwhile, were setting into the sherry. I was accustomed to seeing Lawrence, Bligh, Milner, Rutledge and even the General tipsy, but I wasn't quite as comfortable with our other dinner companion, a lanky fellow who introduced himself to me just before dinner as "Jan Ladislav Zmrzlinový, Duke of Plzeň."

"Pleased to meet you," I said, knowing full well I would be unable to pronounce any of that.

"Please, I am just Jan," he said. His voice was low and accented, and he flattened his vowels in a way I'd never heard before.

I nodded faintly, transfixed by the unibrow gracing his forehead. "Where are you from, Jan?"

"I just don't know what you call it," he said. "In German it is just _Böhmen_."

"Oh—Bohemia?"

"Yes, that is just it," he said. And that had been the end of our conversation. But now, as I watched, Jan was staring at Lawrence as the be-scarfed lieutenant began another joke.

"A Prus—I mean," stammered Lawrence, with a terrified glance at the Baron, "A Bohemian and a Cossack walk into a bar and meet a chicken…"

I tuned out, knowing I wouldn't understand the joke even if I listened. Instead, I glanced around the table. Everyone seemed to be listening happily to the inebriated lieutenant—except for Jan and Tavington. Jan's unibrow was lowered ominously—perhaps Lawrence didn't realize there was a Bohemian present to insult?—and Tavington looked as ominous as he had all evening. My heart softened slightly as I watched him unobserved, but then I remembered why I had been angry in the first place: a murderer deserved none of my sympathy! I took a sip of sherry and tuned back into Lawrence's joke.

"—a cock!" finished Lawrence proudly, and everyone laughed merrily as I choked on my sherry and coughed, eyes watering. Lawrence's jokes tended to have this effect on me.

"Oh, _ja_, you are in _schnapp_ form today," sighed the Baron, gazing fondly at Lawrence. "_Lecker_. May I offer you some of my sticky pudding?"

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To Tavington's chagrin, dinner was no better than the lead-up to it had been. Rawdon insisted that Kat sit next to him, and Cornwallis protested loudly when Tavington made to sit on her other side—"Now, now, Colonel, we must split up the married couple from time to time!"—so Tavington spent the meal glowering at the opposite end of the table, where Rawdon's gaze remained largely fixed on his wife's bosom, and trying not to listen to Lawrence's awful jokes.

And it only worsened as the evening progressed. After dinner, the party retired to the drawing room for some music; Tavington seriously contemplated feigning exhaustion and retiring upstairs, but he didn't relish the idea of leaving his wife unsupervised in the company of Francis, Lord Rawdon. Instead, he was forced into an impromptu concert by Ensign Milner, who apparently fancied himself quite the singer.

"What _are_ you singing, my good fellow?" drawled Rutledge condescendingly, an eyebrow raised as he sipped his brandy. "I'm not certain I would call that music, whatever it is!"

"It's a Haydn bass aria," snapped Milner, clearly much misaligned, "and I'll have you know I've been practicing for weeks!"

"The _Prussian_ again?" scoffed Rutledge, and then, noticing the Baron's face, hastened to correct his gaffe. "I mean to say—it was an astonishingly moving composition!"

"Cheers, thanks, cheers," said Milner, bowing, and the Baron's glare dissipated. But Tavington had had enough. Trying and failing to meet his wife's eye, he stood up. The room went suddenly silent.

"My apologies, but I fear I'm poor company this evening," he growled. "Forgive me." He stalked out of the drawing room. As he strode across the foyer, he heard Cornwallis's voice: "My dear madam, you heard your husband! I believe he needs the sort of comfort only a wife can provide!"

But Tavington knew better than to assume she would follow. He hadn't the least idea what she was upset about now, but there could be no doubt that she was indeed less than pleased with him. Or perhaps she was merely concerned that she wouldn't be able to conduct herself in polite society around him. Yes, that would be it: undoubtedly she would be upstairs soon.

To his surprise, no sooner had he reached their bedroom than Kat rushed in, slamming the door behind her. "I want you _out_ of my room. Right _now_!" she said loudly.

"You contradict yourself, madam," Tavington replied smoothly, moving toward her. "It will be difficult for me to leave when you have both closed the door and positioned yourself between me and my way out."

She backed away from him, bosom heaving, but seemed unable to speak. "I—I—you—" She gave a small squeak as she hit the door.

"You are positively incoherent," purred Tavington, and he bent down to kiss her.

But, to his utter shock, she shoved him away and ducked under his arm away from the door. "How can you think I would—would—fall for that crap again? After what you did?"

Tavington was utterly baffled. "I beg your pardon?"

"You—you killed a child," said Kat, now seeming to get hold of herself. "They told me. That boy—at the plantation, the day after you rescued me—you shot him." She was looking at him with a venom he had never seen before.

"He threatened my soldiers!" protested Tavington. She couldn't _actually_ be angry about that, could she?

"Threatened!" she snorted. "He was a child! What sort of threat did you possibly imagine he could pose? You have some twisted idea of machismo if you think gunning down a kid makes you a stronger leader!"

Tavington had no idea what shooting a goat had to do with anything, but she wasn't done. "And if you think I'm sleeping in a room with a murderer, you're damn wrong!"

Tavington opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it: a woman who would utter such vulgarities was clearly not in her right mind. Best to humor her. "Kat," he said, voice low, "I'm sorry." He nearly choked on the words, but he knew that was what she wanted to hear.

"It doesn't do a lot of good apologizing to me, does it?" she said shrilly. "What about the boy? His family? Do you ever think about the implications of your actions, or does your ego really need to be built up that much?"

He hadn't the foggiest idea what she was talking about; obviously, she was not well. He took a cautious step toward her. She remained where she was, which he took as a good sign, though she still looked angrier than he had ever seen her. He had a sudden stroke of brilliance. "Kat," he whispered, grasping her by the shoulders and pulling her toward him, "my dear. I am sorry." That should do it.

After a moment of what appeared to be intense inner turmoil, she closed her eyes and said rapidly, "All right, you can stay, but you sleep on the floor."

"Thank you," he said simply, and stepped away from her. Now was no time to force the issue: Tavington knew it would be much harder on her than it was on him.

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**AN: You guys are terrific! I am so honored to have you all as my readers, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy this story as it begins—sort of—to parallel the film at last. (I say "sort of" because 1. I prefer to err on the side of historical accuracy where possible, and 2. I like to think that the presence of Kat will have an effect on Tavington.) So thank you so much for the encouraging reviews, and pleeeeease keep them coming!**

**Also, a gargantuan round of applause to Cid62 for recognizing Jamie from Diana Gabaldon's "Outlander." If you don't know him yet, please make his acquaintance!**

**Finally, I would like to dedicate this chapter to Ensign Milner of the HMS Jolly Good: keep it up, sailor! But I haven't forgotten my betas…to TTT and SSS, I send my sincere thanks and wishes for their speedy moral recovery.**

**Hopefully you will be hearing from me again soon :-)**


	24. How Does It Hang?

A week had passed since his wife's bizarre episode, and to Tavington's intense displeasure, he had been unable to check on his heir's progress, as it were: Kat had not only refused to allow him into her bed, she was barely speaking to him. She had rebuked his every attempt at charm, and as the days progressed, he had given up even civility. He felt increasingly disgruntled, and more than once, Bligh and Lawrence had borne the brunt of his discontent.

One hazy, hot morning, Colonel Tavington was summoned to see Cornwallis. He was not in the best of moods, between his wife and an incident involving a stubborn goat, a bar of soap, and Lieutenant Lawrence; a complaint from the General, who was never in his best humor in the heat, was hardly on his wish list.

Indeed, as Tavington strode into Cornwallis's tent, it was immediately evident that his superior was feeling rather ill-tempered. "This is most vexing! I am quite put out!"

"Milord?" said Tavington, somewhat cautiously.

"I hate to do it, Tavington, but we shall have to head north!" Cornwallis shook his head vigorously, as though he were trying to shake off the unpleasantness.

Tavington was rather baffled. "Milord, we have had nothing but victory here—moving the campaign north is an indication of the magnitude of your success!"

"Yes, yes, that's all well and good, but we shall have to leave Peartree behind as well!"

The General was obviously upset about this, but Tavington couldn't help but feel rather pleased. The prospect of a life without Rutledge seemed heavenly, even if Tavington's wife was still refusing him her favors. "I am sure we shall find the next plantation equally comfortable, Milord."

Cornwallis waved a hand in Tavington's direction. "I don't want to hear it, Tavington. I have a very specific task for you. You shall have to find a secure method of transportation for Mr. Rutledge."

"Transportation? To where?" Why on earth shouldn't Rutledge be left at Peartree, where he would no longer play any sort of role in Tavington's life?

"To our new outpost in the north!" said Cornwallis irritably.

"But—Milord—why should Rutledge possibly accompany us? His home is here—should we not allow him to stay?" Tavington knew this was a stretch, but he could not allow Rutledge to accompany them.

"Nonsense, Colonel, the man's under house arrest," said Cornwallis, and, before Tavington could interrupt, "and anyway, he's quite entertaining at parties."

"Milord—"

"Enough!" thundered the General. "Go inform your troops, Colonel!"

Tavington bowed and made to stomp out of the tent, but before he could, Cornwallis made one last, infuriating comment. "And do something to cheer up your wife, Tavington. She looks as if she needs some rest, if you take my meaning."

Tavington made some sort of growled affirmative noise and marched out. Someone would have to pay for his bad mood—and if Lawrence was the first one he spotted, so much the worse for him.

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I had to admit, it was much more difficult to resist Tavington once my initial anger at him had worn off. I wanted to trust him again, but—it was just too risky, giving every part of myself to a man who, without any motive at all, would kill a child. There were times when I wanted to stop pushing him away, to give in—but he was becoming more distant as the days passed, and…well, I missed him, plain and simple. It was better this way, wasn't it? I'd have to let him go in the end anyway….

I had just finished dressing one particularly hot morning and was heading downstairs to find some breakfast when I heard a great commotion coming from the normally unoccupied room next to mine. I tiptoed over and peered through the slightly opened door. 

Lawrence was bent over, Rutledge standing just behind him, and both were surveying the contents of a rather large trunk. "I say, Mr. Rutledge, what _are_ you going to do with all that junk?" Lawrence exclaimed.

"It will have to go, I daresay," sighed Rutledge. "Mustn't leave anything behind that could be incriminating."

"What's going on?" I asked, walking into the room. Both men straightened up.

"Mrs. Tavington!" said Lawrence brightly. "Has Colonel Tavington not informed you of the General's orders?"

My face must have betrayed my dismay, because Rutledge shot Lawrence a sharp glance and spoke before I had a chance to. "We're leaving Peartree, Mrs. Tavington. We're heading for North Carolina."

"What? When?" I was shocked: Peartree had become my home, the only one I knew since I'd come here.

"Two weeks," drawled Rutledge.

"Which means we have time to plan a _lovely_ going away party!" chirped Lawrence.

"But I've also got to clean out a lot of this junk in my trunk," said Rutledge. He plucked out an envelope from the trunk in question and opened it, chuckling to himself as he surveyed its contents. "Ah, my old Oxford brothers," he said, clearly lost in reminisces. "They really did treat me nicely, you know…"

"Yes, I do know just exactly what you mean!" said Lawrence. "When I was at Eton, Androclus used to buy me all of these _lovely_—"

I was still in shock that we were leaving Peartree, so I decided to leave Lawrence and Rutledge to their cleaning. "Pardon me, gentlemen," I said, and backed out of the room. I wandered back into my own bedroom, all thought of breakfast forgotten, and collapsed onto the bed.

Why should the idea of leaving Peartree upset me so? I tried to compose myself and analyze it rationally. Yes, it felt like home, but there was more to it than that. Firstly, I'd never been out of South Carolina. I was ready to get away, certainly—which was why, in another lifetime, I had planned to attend Harvard—but not under these circumstances. And that was linked to my second reason for wanting to stay: I had no idea how or why I'd been sent to this time, but I couldn't help feeling that this area, where I had grown up, was my sole link back to the future, to my own life.

I flopped back onto the bed, sighed deeply, and wondered what the hell I was going to do.

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Colonel Tavington returned to Peartree that evening with a mission. Not that he wished to play up to Cornwallis's continual jibes about his marital relations, but—if the General actually had noticed the strain between the Colonel and his wife, and they were to take to the road with the rest of the officers, it would be best if there were no questions about their relationship. And, Tavington thought, he should also like to know that his wife was firmly under his control. All of this moodiness—it simply would not do. He would not be dictated to.

But then, Kat had proved repeatedly that she did not necessarily respond well to direct orders. Perhaps, then, another method would be necessary. By the time he reached the house, he knew exactly what to do. "Bligh!" he barked, noting that the lieutenant was on sentry duty. "Go find me some flowers."

Bligh looked nonplussed. "Sir?"

"For my _wife_, lieutenant," growled Tavington. "Go!"

Bligh saluted and loped off into the hazy dusk.

Tavington allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction with his own cleverness before he continued his march into the house. He encountered no one between the door and his wife's room—just as well, as it allowed him an extra few seconds to prepare for his imminent rendez-vous.

He didn't bother knocking, simply opened the door with a flourish and strode in. His wife, who had been sewing next to the window, leapt from her chair with a gasp. "Who—you scared me!"

"My apologies," he said smoothly, closing the door behind him as he slid his waistcoat off of his broad shoulders and began to unbutton his shirt.

"What are you doing here?" Kat said, obviously unnerved to find herself alone in his company, a situation she had been steadfastly avoiding for some time, save when she had been pretending to be asleep.

Shirt unbuttoned, Tavington sat down on the bed, turning his attention to his boots. "I finished my duties early this evening, and I thought I would observe the widespread custom of—dressing for dinner."

"Why?" She seemed suspicious, but Tavington felt this was a natural attempt to hide her obvious nervousness.

He took his time in answering her, deliberately removing his boots and beginning the long process of unfastening his pants before he stood and turned toward her. Her jaw dropped open slightly as she took in his state of undress. "I find that, in certain situations, it is desirable to look one's best," he purred, taking several steps toward her. She seemed bemused: clearly, his strategy was having the desired effect. "Particularly when one wishes to be…persuasive…" He was close enough to touch her now, and she obviously knew it: her lips still parted, she leaned toward him ever so slightly—

He brushed past her and moved into the adjoining closet to dress. She whirled around to follow him and began to splutter incoherently. "You—you—I don't—what are you—?"

"You are raving," he said easily, and set about dressing himself, congratulating himself on what was sure to be the first of many victories.

Just as he emerged from the dressing room, there was a knock on the door.

"Enter!" he barked, and a moment later, Bligh's head was peering through at them. The lieutenant edged into the room, looking extremely uncomfortable, one hand behind his back and the other clutching his sword.

Tavington was, against his will, rather impressed. Bligh had been rather quick about his task. "Let's see what you have there, Lieutenant." He strode over to where Bligh stood and, grasping the flower that the lieutenant reluctantly pressed into his hand, shooed him out and shut the door. Only then did Tavington notice that Bligh had brought him back one flower, not a bouquet. And that flower was rather—red, among its other attributes. Still, in terms of the suggestive power of flowers, Bligh was really to be congratulated.

He crossed the room back to where Kat was sitting, arms folded, staring out the window. She had not even acknowledged Bligh's brief foray into her chamber; Tavington hoped rather than believed that this indicated a sudden turn toward good taste on her part. "Kat," he drawled, then added for good measure, "my dear."

She turned to look at him, but to his surprise, she didn't look at all pleased. "What do you have in your hand?"

"A—gift," he said, moving toward her.

"And what do you expect from me in return?" She was still obviously intimidated by his overwhelming masculine allure, so he decided to change his trajectory.

"Your forgiveness," he said, and gazed meaningfully into her eyes. "Give it to me, and I will show you everything."

She swallowed and blinked rapidly. "Tell me what's behind your back," she said, a quaver in her voice. Tavington knew he'd won.

"For you," he said, and presented the crimson flower to her.

She seemed less impressed than he had expected. "Hmm," she said, examining the flower's long chute. "It's—interesting."

"I'm pleased that you like it," he replied, bowing slightly. "Now, shall we—"

"Flowers reproduce asexually," Kat offered unexpectedly.

"I beg your pardon?" Tavington was utterly bewildered, not only by the oddity of her statement, but by its bluntness.

"Flowers have both male and female organs, and they reproduce asexually," she repeated, still gazing at the long-stemmed flower.

Tavington sighed to himself. It was of course best to humor her—passing fits of madness were common among expectant women, he knew—but it did become rather tiresome. "Fascinating, I'm sure," he drawled. "Let us—"

"They need to be pollinated, though," she continued. "By bees."

Tavington felt that she was testing his limits rather unfairly. "It is fortunate that men require no such service," he said testily, wishing the subject could be abandoned, "as we are the primary perpetrators of fertility."

"Excuse me?" Kat had abandoned her examination of the flower and was now staring intently at him.

He stared back at her, frowning. Why was she acting as though he'd said something offensive? Perhaps a joke would lighten her mood. "It's immaterial. In any case, your—_ahem_—flower has been plucked, as it were. Shall we—"

But before he could suggest once more that they go downstairs to dinner, her face was inches from his. "You disgust me," she snarled, and flounced out of the room alone.

Tavington rolled his eyes. Would the woman ever behave like a rational creature? He heaved a great sigh and, adopting a careworn expression befitting a long-suffering husband such as himself, followed her down the stairs to dinner.

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Before I knew it, it was September, and our appointed date for leaving Peartree was fast approaching. I was more nervous than ever. I spent my days either helping Edward clean out the house in preparation for our departure—or, in the hours when I could slip away, combing the nearby woods for any sort of clue that would help me to get home. But I found nothing, and as the days passed, my search became increasingly desperate even as I came to accept the truth: I would have to go north with the army, or face the prospect of starvation or a more sinister death if I tried to escape and stay here. And, since I couldn't trust to the forces that had brought me here to be so kind as to return me at my whim, there wasn't really a choice—to North Carolina I would go.

Not that I was wild about the idea. Aside from wanting desperately to leave myself a way out, I was less than thrilled at the prospect of having to play the dutiful wife and follow Tavington wherever he went. I hadn't forgiven him for killing that innocent boy, and his chauvinistic attitude had hardened my heart against him. Though, admittedly, he was being quite as charming as I'd ever seen him: Bligh's ugly red flower had been followed by a much prettier bouquet of fresh daisies the next day. When that didn't induce me to forgive him, he had tried giving me a thimble, a length of lace, a bit of perfume. But I knew it was a ruse, and I refused to let myself be fooled. And—though I wouldn't admit it, even to myself—I was enjoying his attempts at wooing me, allowing me to be in charge for once.

I was awakened on the morning of my last full day at Peartree by a knock on the door. "Mrs. Tavington?" trilled Lawrence. "Are you awake?"

"I am now," I yawned, sitting up and drawing the blankets around me. "Come in."

The door opened, and Lawrence nanced into the room, carrying a loaf of steaming bread wrapped in a towel. Bligh followed more sedately, frowning as he maneuvered a tray bearing a teapot and cup. Edward Rutledge brought up the rear, violin in hand. "Good morning, my dear madam," he drawled, bowing politely.

"What's going on?" I was perplexed as to why this threesome had appeared in my bedroom so early in the morning. "Is everything all right?"

"Perfectly all right," Lawrence assured me. "Our orders are to see that you get breakfast in bed, that's all."

"The Colonel put you up to this." I groaned, but my groan turned into another yawn.

Lawrence looked concerned. "Here, Mrs. Tavington, do let me pour you some tea."

I didn't object, primarily because I knew he'd do it anyway. Bligh stood holding the tea tray, an absurdly tall version of a classic maidservant, as Lawrence set down the breadbasket and attended to my tea. Rutledge, meanwhile, raised his violin and began to bow.

I listened politely for a few moments, but then it just became too much. "Really, I appreciate it," I began, "but—I prefer to be alone in the morning."

Rutledge and Lawrence exchanged a knowing glance. "Of course, madam, we understand," said Rutledge. "If there's anything we can do to make you feel better, do let us know."

"I feel fine," I said, bewildered.

"Of course you do, Mrs. Tavington," said Lawrence soothingly, bustling the other two out the door. "We shall see you this evening for dinner!"

With that, they were gone, and I was left to wonder why everyone was treating me so oddly.

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Tavington entered the dining room on his last evening at Peartree with a profound sense of relief, mingled with pleasure. He had always become restless if he were forced to stay in one place for too long; and anyway, he would be thoroughly content to see the last of this accursed plantation, if not of its owner. Despite all his efforts, he had made no progress of late where his wife was concerned: even his particularly innovative step of forcing his lieutenants to serve her breakfast had apparently not been much appreciated, though he attributed this to his own carelessness—women in a certain way were never hungry in the morning, in his experience. In the end, he supposed, he would simply have to accept that his heir was on the way and wait for some sign that Kat also realized the inevitability of the situation. She would come back to him soon, of that he was certain. And in the meantime, he would have the personal satisfaction of leaving this place behind forever. First, though, there was this blasted party to get through—normally a less than agreeable prospect, but the way Lawrence had been chirping about the company all week, Tavington knew this gathering would be particularly repulsive.

The greeting that met him the moment he walked through the double doors into the room, at which point Rutledge swooped down upon him, did nothing to assuage his doubts. "Good evening, my dear Colonel!" exclaimed Rutledge. "May I offer you a celebratory boutonnière?" Tavington saw nothing for it but to nod briefly, as everyone else in the room was already bedecked in the yellow jessamines Rutledge was now offering him. Cornwallis actually had two, one tucked under each epaulet. Before he realized it, Rutledge had stuffed a flower into Tavington's buttonhole. And, before he could protest, Cornwallis was upon him.

"Tavington!" boomed the General. "So glad you could join us! Where is your charming wife, Colonel?"

Tavington was on the verge of indicating that he would go and find her—any escape from this torment would be bliss—when Kat herself answered. "Here I am, General!"

Cornwallis chuckled and went to greet her—and so, Tavington noted with annoyance, did every other man in the room: Lawrence, Rutledge, that bloody Ensign Milner who insisted upon hanging about, even the Baron and that odd Bohemian fellow who always seemed to be in the vicinity these days. Well, at least Lord Rawdon was nowhere in sight, Tavington noticed with grim satisfaction; his wife's dress, while pretty, was rather low-cut, and the last thing he needed this evening was for his superior to be present and ogling—

"Sorry I'm late!" bellowed Rawdon himself, bursting in through the door. "What have I missed?" Not waiting for an answer, he pushed his way through the crowd now surrounding Kat and, seizing her hand, bent low to kiss it. "Mrs. Tavington, you are blooming! May I grasp your—"

"My dear," cut in Tavington, deciding that this was quite enough, "may I escort you to the table?"

To his surprise, she smiled at him and placed her hand on his arm to be led away from her admirers. Even more shockingly, she planted a brief kiss on his cheek—which he would have never permitted in normal circumstances. "Thanks for rescuing me!" she whispered as he guided her into her chair.

Tavington had no idea what had effected this change, but he couldn't pretend it was unwelcome. It was about time his wife began to give him the proper respect. He made to seat himself in the seat next to hers, but as he was sitting, he was intercepted by Rawdon. "I say, General, does the hired help dine with the rest of the party nowadays?"

Cornwallis only chortled, and Tavington could sense that he was on his own for this battle. "I beg your pardon, Lord Rawdon?"

"Well, really, Reginald, we don't do that sort of thing in Sussex—but if the General is willing to be accommodating, who am I to protest?" Rawdon was peering at Tavington as though genuinely confused.

"Sir, my name is William Tavington," growled Tavington, now beginning to lose his temper. "I am a Colonel in His Majesty's army, I command the Green Dragoons, and I have served under you on several occasions."

Rawdon blinked, eyes wide. "Ah, yes, that's right! I thought for a moment there that you were the butler! My apologies, Reginald." Tavington rolled his eyes surreptitiously, deciding that further correction was useless.

And so, apparently, was his attempt to sit next to his wife: Rawdon had managed to steal his seat in the confusion. Glowering, Tavington retreated to the opposite end of the table and set into his soup.

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At long last, and with surprisingly little fanfare, dinner was over, and they were moving into the drawing room for music: Tavington suspected strongly that the lack of flourish was due less to a lack of planning than to the fact that Lawrence was now obviously on the verge of tears at the prospect of leaving Peartree, having consumed rather too much brandy after dinner.

"I don't know—how you can—b-bear it!" sniffed Lawrence to Rutledge. "Leaving these lovely g-grounds!"

Rutledge sighed heavily and nodded, while Milner patted them both awkwardly on the back. Tavington, whose own senses were rather dulled by the monumental amount of wine he had drunk, perked up a bit at this: if Rutledge, too, were caught up in the spirit that had depressed the festive air, would they perchance bypass the musical portion of the evening? Perhaps he could escape upstairs…?

But Kat cut into his thoughts, preempting him. "I think—if you don't mind, I think I'll—go upstairs. To bed," she added unnecessarily. "I think maybe—I've had too much—too much wine." Her eyelids fluttered, and Tavington was forcibly reminded of the night he had met her, when Cornwallis had engaged them, and she had fainted after the French wine…

"I'll just be taking my wife to bed, then," said Tavington firmly, ignoring the titters that met this statement. He stepped forward, tucked Kat's arm under his, and marched toward the stairs, barely hearing the bevy of well-wishers whose farewells followed them through the foyer.

To Tavington's surprise, Kat was leaning heavily on him as they climbed the stairs together. She must have drunk more than he realized: a behavior that would have to be discouraged, of course, though he was rather enjoying its effects at the moment.

She stumbled away from him to sit on the bed once they reached the bedroom, her eyes following him unblinkingly as he closed the door and removed his waistcoat, plucking the flower out of its buttonhole with a grimace as he did so. Tavington threw the coat onto the bed—and Kat threw herself into his arms.

His first thought was shock that her recent iciness had vanished; his second, that it was only to be inevitable that she'd give in, as he had actually been trying to charm her; and then thought was lost as he realized only how long it had actually been since he had kissed her, and he became lost in the flood of feeling her kiss had brought on. Her hands grasped his shoulders even as his arms wound more tightly around her waist—and suddenly, she had pushed him away.

"No," she breathed. But stopping him seemed to be the last thing on her mind: she stood gazing at him, bosom heaving, her eyes willing him to undress her and finish what she had started. And it would be so easy to draw her back into his arms now, force her into doing what she so obviously wanted anyway—

There was a knock at the door, and Tavington cursed under his breath. "What?" he barked.

Rutledge's voice, muffled through the heavy wood, answered him. "You forgot your truffles! They're filled with cherry!"

Tavington marched to the door, threw it open, and seized the silver tray of truffles unceremoniously. "Thank you," he growled, "good night." He slammed the door again and, setting the chocolates on the bedside table, turned back to his wife.

She was standing just as he'd left her, unfazed by Rutledge's abrupt visit. But he knew then that he could not force himself on her. "My apologies, madam," he said, and left the room before he could change his mind.

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	25. Ambitionz as a Ridah

_September 1780_

Just like that, it was the second week of September, and we were packing everything into the train of carriages and wagons that would take us to our new home. I was not exactly feeling my best: I had drunk entirely too much the night before, and my stomach and head were paying the price. But worse—much worse—was my hazy recollection of what had happened last night with Tavington. At some point during the course of the evening, my latent desire to forgive him had taken hold, and I had a feeling I had made an utter fool of myself. I remembered him leaving abruptly, but I couldn't quite remember why…I had a vague idea that I might have kissed him, but if I had, then why would he have left?

I couldn't shake off my uneasiness, and my queasiness wasn't helping anything. As soon as I'd pulled on a pair of riding pants and an old shirt—I certainly wasn't planning to ride all day in a dress!—I sat down at the dressing table in my room and surveyed my face in the warped mirror. I was ridiculously pale, and my hair was a disaster. I grabbed the silver comb on the table and ran it through my tangled nest of hair a few times. I couldn't help but remember as I did so the day that Tavington—William—had brought it for me, and the way he had combed my hair himself… I shook myself mentally. Pining after him would do no good; I would just have to see how things unfolded. And anyway, with any luck I'd be out of here soon…I realized with a shock how soon the solstice would be. I would have to make a plan soon.

"Mrs. Tavington!" Lawrence's voice shook me from my reverie. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Oh—yes!" I said, leaping up from my vanity. I immediately wished I hadn't. My head was spinning and my stomach churned; I felt like I was on a Tilt-a-Whirl. I groaned, unconsciously folding my arms over my stomach in a vain effort to stop the nausea that had overtaken me.

"Are you all right, madam?" drawled Rutledge, entering the room just behind Lawrence.

"I'm fine," I said, willing it to be true and simultaneously vowing never to drink again.

I couldn't help but notice that Rutledge and Lawrence exchanged annoyingly knowing glances. "And will you be quite all right to ride today?" inquired Lawrence.

"Yes," I said firmly. "Let me just check around the room one last time to be sure I haven't forgotten anything. I'll be outside in a moment."

Both men bowed and exited, leaving me alone in the room that had been my only sanctuary since I'd arrived. I knew there wasn't anything that I needed; my clothing was already packed, and I didn't really own anything. Realizing I was still holding the comb, I stuffed it into the pocket of my breeches and gave my bedroom one last sweeping glance. I really would miss Peartree, and not only because I couldn't help but feel that my chance of returning home was somehow linked to the plantation. But there was no use in worrying about it now—I would figure something out.

Taking a deep breath, I walked out of the bedroom and closed the door behind me.

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Colonel Tavington's day had not started particularly enjoyably. Already displeased with his wife for that incident the night before (though he could not help but think that perhaps his displeasure was really more disappointment than anything), her appearance on the veranda in men's breeches had done nothing to improve his temperament. And, as predicted, she had absolutely refused to ride sidesaddle. Tavington had no doubt that, had he been allowed to govern the situation, he would have been able to persuade her otherwise; but as it was, everyone from Rutledge to Cornwallis was on her side, and so she was permitted to ride in an ostentatiously unladylike manner. Even his own less-than-subtle indications to the General that women in her condition ought not to ride astride horses fell on deaf ears. Really, that girl had everyone wrapped around her little finger—except himself, of course. And so what should have otherwise been a joyous occasion—they were leaving the accursed plantation at last!—was, for Tavington at least, a circumstance of great annoyance.

He spent the first few hours of riding glowering as he watched Kat chat merrily with everyone else. Thank goodness Rawdon would be remaining in the vicinity of Charles Towne; Tavington felt that the least gesture on the part of his superior would send him into a rage. But his general displeasure gradually heightened into a particular irritation at the attention his wife was paying to Lawrence, to Bligh, even to bloody Rutledge—it was not to be borne!

Slowing his horse so it broke even with hers, he raised his voice just enough to be heard over the continuous chatter emanating from the cluster of Lawrence, Rutledge, and Milner. "I trust you're feeling well this morning."

To his satisfaction, his wife looked enormously uncomfortable at the question. "I've been better," she said, blushing slightly. "And…you?"

"Quite well," he said curtly. "Lovely dinner last night, wasn't it?"

"Um," she said, and turned redder still. "I'm…uh…yes, it was."

Determined to ascertain her opinion on the events of the previous evening, he probed further. "I only wish we hadn't retired before the music began," he said, doing his level best to keep the disdain from creeping into his voice.

"Oh! Um—yes," she said faintly, clearly confused. "Yes, that's too bad."

Hmm…perhaps she didn't remember what had happened, then? But before he could continue in this intriguing line of questioning, a commotion exploded to their right.

"Come now, Lawrence, admit it," Rutledge chuckled superciliously.

"I won't!" said Lawrence loudly, obviously much irritated. "I've never done such a thing in my life! I will have you know that—"

"I've seen you at it, mate," Bligh interrupted. "Crumbs all over everything."

"Shocking!" adjoined Ensign Milner. "I simply can't believe it!"

"What's up?" Kat chimed in, obviously glad to be free of Tavington's interrogation. No matter, he would corner her later, perhaps when they stopped that afternoon. And anyway, he should really be informed about whatever this filthy habit of Lawrence's was…

"Lawrence has taken to consuming the Baron's pastries—in his bed!" Rutledge was unable to finish his sentence without bursting into laughter, which Bligh and Milner joined him in. Lawrence, arms folded, looked rather like a petulant child.

Kat seemed to find the whole thing very amusing. She burst into a fit of laughter at the look on Lawrence's face. "Sorry," she said, glancing over at Tavington, still giggling.

Tavington rolled his eyes. Would these fits of madness ever cease? One had to make allowances for women in the family way, but being amused at Lawrence's escapades was a sure sign of insanity. "I won't presume to trouble you further," he said curtly. And, spurring his horse on, he galloped to the front of the line, knowing full well as he did so that she could not help but admire his seat and consummate riding skill.

It was only a matter of time.

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By noon, I was more than ready to reach our new home. I was covered in a thin layer of dust from the road mingled with sweat because of the hot sun on my face, and I wanted nothing more than a bath.

Bligh looked just as weary as I felt; he was listening to Lawrence and Rutledge gossip with Milner. All three men seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of chatter, and Bligh's expression was one of grim endurance. It was especially amusing to watch Lawrence try to converse politely with Rutledge, as the latter was seated behind him astride Daniel: Cornwallis had insisted that Rutledge not be allowed his own horse lest he try to escape, and Lawrence had volunteered to be his escort. Though apparently he hadn't realized the conversational difficulties that would ensue.

"And do you know, I really think Günther was right!" Lawrence was saying chirpily, half twisted around in his saddle so that both Rutledge and Milner could hear him properly. "I felt _ever _so much better after my personal muzzle management session with him. Every man has got to know how to administer a good cocking!"

Bligh snorted at this, and I had to stifle my own laughter. A loud harrumph to my right indicated that we were not the only ones who had heard Lawrence's exclamation: Tavington was closer to us than I had realized. He wasn't riding so near that I would have to talk to him, but he was just close enough that I was constantly on tenterhooks. I couldn't figure out why I had this sixth sense where he was concerned: every time he was anywhere near me, some part of myself was aware of his exact position, even when he was behind me. It made me tense, especially after the morning's awkward interview. What on earth had happened the night before that I didn't remember?

Just as I was pondering this, the call came for our midday rest. Not a moment too soon. I noted happily that, on the side of the road opposite the field where everyone was settling into lunch, thin line of trees obscured what looked like a fairly large pond. "I'm going to go for a walk," I announced to no one in particular. I could use some time to myself—and quite possibly a chance to soak my feet in the water.

"Just be careful, Mrs. Tavington," said Rutledge, sliding carefully down from his perch behind Lawrence. "We shall send a rescue party after you if you're not back within the hour!"

"Yes, don't hesitate to call if you find you need any naval assistance," Ensign Milner added.

"I'll be fine," I assured them both, and set off through the trees.

When I reached the pond, though, I discovered that my solitude was already being interrupted. Tavington was at the water's edge, coat and boots in a heap next to him, shirt unbuttoned, hair loose. I froze in my tracks, not wanting to be seen—but it was too late. Instead of acknowledging my presence, though, he merely stared at me for a moment with an unreadable expression—and dove into the water, shirt and all.

A moment later, he resurfaced and swam smoothly to the edge of the pond, then climbed out onto the bank. He pulled on his boots, picked up his coat, and strode toward me purposefully. I was rooted to the ground where I stood as he halted directly in front of me. Inadvertently, my eyes swept down his body, pausing momentarily to take the sopping shirt and pants now clinging to every part of his anatomy. I swallowed hard, searching for something to say, but his icy blue eyes silenced me before I could even begin.

"Lovely day for a swim," he said, leaning toward me ever so slightly.

I nodded, not able to break eye contact. He moved closer, raising a hand to brush the hair away from my face. Before I could react, he brushed past me, leaving me to gawk after him, dazed.

This was hard. Too hard. I had no choice but to forgive him. But—would he give me the chance?

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I found myself unable to participate in the increasingly absurd conversation of Lawrence, Rutledge, Bligh, and Milner as the afternoon wore on. Still distracted by my encounter with Tavington next to the lake, I kept thinking about how I could fix the situation. As soon as we arrived at our new home, I would make myself look presentable again; and then, I supposed, I would have to put my qualms aside and just—go for it.

In the late afternoon, we arrived at the plantation that was to be our home. Newer and grander than Peartree, it also looked more military: a tall fence of thick wood surrounded the house, and four official-looking sentries stood at the gates. No, this was no Peartree, and somehow the increased security made me more nervous.

As soon as I was inside the gates, I slid off of my horse and allowed her to be led away by a stable boy. My riding companions likewise dismounted, and we all stood together, gazing about us. Rutledge looked disdainful, Milner confused, Lawrence rather gloomy, but it was Bligh who broke the silence.

"You've got some wood," he said, gesturing at Lawrence's midsection.

We all turned to look at Lawrence. Sure enough, the lieutenant's abdomen was covered in small splinters of what appeared to be wood. "I'm sure I don't know how that happened!" he exclaimed, brushing himself off frantically. Bligh sniggered.

I looked around me. Tavington was nowhere in sight. "Pardon me, gentlemen," I said, and set off from the quartet with the intent of finding someone in a position of authority—preferably the General—who would be able to tell me where I might find a bath and some fresh clothes. But I had only made it a few steps toward the house when I was intercepted by an officer I didn't know. A tall, handsome officer, whose obviously new uniform showcased his muscular physique. An officer who was smiling down at me with beautiful green eyes…

"Mrs. Tavington," he said.

"Um—yes, that's me," I spluttered. How did this man know who I was?

"Colonel Wickham Thoreau," he said, grasping the hand I had unconsciously offered and kissing it lightly. I felt a chill run down my spine at his touch. "I've heard so much about you from General Lord Cornwallis."

"Oh," I said, wishing more than ever I could find some clean clothes.

Thoreau didn't seem at all perturbed by my abruptness. "I'm honored to be the one to welcome you to Applebottom. This plantation," he said in response to my questioning look. "It belongs to a Loyalist family who—but that can wait," he interrupted himself, "I daresay you'd like a moment to clean up before dinner?"

"That would be lovely," I said, unable to stop myself from smiling. Applebottom. What was it with these people and their fruit-inspired names?

Smiling back, he extended his forearm to me. "Allow me to show you to your quarters," he said.

I felt my spine chill again as I took his arm. Life was about to get interesting.

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There was a bitter taste in Colonel Tavington's mouth as he watched his wife sweep into the house on the arm of Thoreau. He knew for a certainty that his carefully calculated dip into the pond this afternoon had been a catalyst, knew that his wife had forgiven him at last—only to run into this obstacle, totally unforeseen. How could he have forgotten? _Thoreau_.

If Tavington had few friends, he had equally few true enemies: he fought the opponents assigned to him, exacting vengeance where necessary but always avoiding emotional involvement—unless, of course, an individual had somehow offended his honor. Thoreau was one of this latter group.

They had met at Eton, enmity ensuing immediately from a geographical rivalry: Thoreau's surname, as well as his manners, were those of the son of a Surrey aristocrat, contrasting markedly with Tavington's northern upbringing. This rivalry had expanded into outright hostility as both had ascended through the echelons of power at Eton—and then Thoreau, not Tavington, had been named Head Boy. Serving under Thoreau was a blow from which Tavington had never quite recovered, even now that they were of equal rank in His Majesty's Army, though he did take some comfort in the fact that, as commander of the Green Dragoons, he wielded more real power than Thoreau.

Several obstacles stood in the way of what should have been a triumph for Tavington, however. First, there was the fact that Cornwallis had always been inexplicably fond of Thoreau. Second was Thoreau's recent marriage: he had married well, to the daughter of an earl for whose wealth and position Tavington had always harbored some affection. And now—what the devil was Tavington's own wife doing consorting with the man, his sworn enemy?

Gritting his teeth, Tavington strode into the house after them.

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"Well, I suppose it could be worse," sighed Lieutenant Lawrence, surveying the plantation before him. "There _is_ some lovely vegetation here."

"It's certainly no Peartree," grumbled Rutledge. "Even the name…_Applebottom_…" He harrumphed.

"I reckon it's all right, eh," said Bligh.

"Yes, well, you _would_, wouldn't you?" retorted Milner. But before Bligh could respond, Lawrence gasped and gestured wildly toward the front door of the house.

"Thoreau!" he cried, pointing at a tall officer escorting Mrs. Tavington inside. When no one exhibited any sort of enthusiasm at his pronouncement, he sighed loudly. "_Colonel_ Thoreau," he said, exasperated. "Colonel Tavington's rival!"

At this, his companions perked up. "Rival, you say?" drawled Rutledge.

"At Eton, yes!" Bligh groaned inwardly at the prospect of another of Lawrence's drawn-out tales, but he wasn't to be stopped. "I don't remember all of the particulars—I was only in the first year at the time, you know—but Thoreau was made Head Boy, and Tavington was passed over! It was quite a scandal, everyone was talking about it for _months_…and you know, I never liked Thoreau when I was in school, he always paid Androclus special notice, and it was rather uncomfortable for everyone…."

Bligh's attention drifted away from Lawrence's mildly interesting gossip as they walked up the front steps and into the house. They were all momentarily silenced by the grandeur of the foyer, Rutledge emitting a slight sniff of unconvincing disdain.

"Well, as I was saying," continued Lawrence after a moment's pause, "Androclus used to—" But his sentence was cut short as he took a step forward, slipped on the freshly waxed marble, and hit the floor.

Bligh bent low and extended an enormous hand to help his friend to his feet, chuckling as he did so. Lawrence stood, brushing his shoulders off, looking affronted. "Well, it was _slippery_!" he snapped.

"_Ja_, zis is fery dangerous," said a voice from behind them, and they all turned to see the Baron Günther entering the foyer. "_Extrem wichtig!_"

"You know, I used to be very roughly disciplined in secondary school," Milner said unexpectedly. Bligh rolled his eyes.

"Really? What for?" Lawrence asked, obviously much interested.

"Being too damned cocksure," Milner said. They all nodded thoughtfully.

"_Lecker_," said the Baron. "Shall ve haff some _Küchen_?"

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I didn't see Tavington again until dinner. Thoreau had shown me to my room and left me there, assuring me that someone would come alert me before supper; and I had, without meaning to, immediately collapsed onto the four-poster bed and fallen asleep.

I awoke, groggy and confused, when a knock came on the door. For a moment, I had no idea where I was. Late afternoon sunlight poured in through a window framed by green hangings that matched the spread on my bed, but it looked nothing like my bedroom—and then I remembered we weren't at Peartree anymore.

Whoever it was knocked again, and I leapt out of my bed to go let Tavington into the room, mentally preparing myself for our conversation. But when I opened the door, Tavington was not there. Instead, a short, dark woman with a long braid bustled past me into the room. Without addressing me, she swept about the bedroom and paused next to the vanity that stood next to a large wardrobe at the end of the room, looking at me expectantly.

"Um…can I help you?" I said.

"I am Mithuna," she said. "Please sit, Mrs. Tavington."

I crossed the room and obediently settled into the chair she indicated, primarily because she seemed so authoritative. "Who are you?"

She didn't respond. "You have very lovely eyes."

"Uh…thank you," I said, baffled, as she began to brush my hair briskly. Was this woman a servant of some kind?

"I am not a servant," she said, as if divining my thoughts.

"Oh, I didn't—"

"I live here," she said simply. "Everyone thinks you are with child, Mrs. Tavington."

Not only was I completely confused as to who Mithuna was and why she was at present piling my hair atop my head, her statement was so utterly unexpected that I had no response. "I—_what?_"

"They all think this," she said, unperturbed by my astonishment. "But you are not."

"No!" I said, rather too loudly. "No, I'm not!"

"No," she continued calmly. "You will bear no children until the future is past."

"I—what?" This was by far the oddest conversation I had ever had with a total stranger. First she decided I wasn't pregnant, having never met me before, then she announced I wouldn't have children "until the future is past"? Who _was_ this woman? "What does that _mean_?"

"Someday you will understand," she said. "Your hair is finished. You will dress now."

"Wait—where are—" I was a little annoyed at this unknown personage, and I didn't even know what I was supposed to wear to dinner.

"Your clothes are in the wardrobe. I will see you downstairs," she interrupted. She floated toward the door, then paused. "Someday you shall understand."

"Understand what?!" I said loudly, but she had already shut the door.

I sighed loudly as I marched over to the wardrobe. I had been here what, two hours? and already I had met an absurdly charming colonel (speaking of colonels, where was my husband?), been told by a random woman that "everyone" thought I was pregnant, and then informed that I wouldn't have kids until the future was past? What was going on?

I was slightly appeased when I opened the wardrobe and saw a row of dresses, all of which seemed to be new, hanging before me. I pulled out a silky green one and surveyed it. It looked like it would be kind of tight—but maybe then my flat stomach would be emphasized, proving that I was not in fact pregnant. "Who is _everyone_, anyway?" I grumbled to myself, pulling the dress on. Whatever, I would show them. I surveyed myself in the mirror—I didn't look half bad.

Marching out of my bedroom, I wandered back down the landing and down the stairs to the foyer, where a bevy of people seemed to be assembled. But I was greeted at the bottom of the staircase not by my husband, but by Colonel Thoreau.

He bowed to me and offered me his arm. "You look enchanting this evening, Mrs. Tavington," he said. "May I escort you into the dining room?"

"Sure," I said, scanning the room as he led me through it. I spotted Ensign Milner, gesticulating frantically as he chatted with Rutledge, and a disdainful Bligh; there was the Baron, chatting with Cornwallis; Lawrence was deep in conversation with my new friend Mithuna (I couldn't help frowning slightly when I saw her); and finally, I spotted Tavington alone in a corner, brow furrowed, drinking whiskey much faster than was entirely healthy. "Uh-oh," I muttered aloud.

"Pardon?" said Thoreau, smiling at me.

"Oh, nothing, I'm just…hungry," I said, smiling back while inwardly worrying about the fight that was undoubtedly brewing between me and Tavington.

"That shall soon be remedied," he said pleasantly. "And, though I am afraid we cannot welcome you with dancing today, you shall have your fill of it soon enough. We have planned a ball for next week."

"Really?" I was excited at this—my second ball, and undoubtedly my last one, as the solstice was less than two weeks away, and I would soon be going home…without realizing it, I stopped listening to Thoreau entirely, losing myself in thoughts of my proposed voyage back.

"Mrs. Tavington?" Thoreau's face appeared directly in my vision, interrupting my contemplation. "Are you quite well?"

"Fine," I said, pushing away my worries. "Just a little tired."

He ushered me into a chair near the end of an enormously long table in the dining room. "Well, we shan't tax you too much this evening—only dinner, and then you are free to retire."

"Thank you," I said. He smiled at me, green eyes glowing. I was liking this man more and more.

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I spent the majority of dinner trying in vain to catch the eye of Tavington, whose whiskey consumption was out of control and who looked increasingly as though he'd like to punch whoever was within reach. Coincidentally, this included Lawrence, who was still chatting Mithuna up—the two of them had hit it off, apparently. Bligh, who was across the table from Lawrence, was alternately sipping from a tiny glass of wine and staring incredulously at his flirting friend.

Meanwhile, I had the feeling that Thoreau was doing his best to charm me—and I had to admit, even though I was committed to trying to patch things up with Tavington, the charm was working. It was so hard to remember why it was that I had thought I loved Tavington when Thoreau was so much more open and friendly.

Just after we finished dessert, I found myself yawning profusely. "I think I should go to bed," I said. "I'm sorry—I'm just really tired."

"Quite all right," said Thoreau smilingly. "Would you like an escort?"

"No, thanks, I'll be fine," I said. "Good night!" I shoved my chair back and looked pointedly at where Tavington still sat, but he just as pointedly ignored me.

I wanted to get his attention forcibly, but the noise level in the room was too high, and there were too many people—I didn't want a scene. I stalked out of the room without saying goodnight to anyone; I didn't really feel like talking to anyone except Tavington, and he was apparently uninterested in paying me the slightest attention. I would deal with him later, when he came to bed.

And if he wasn't receptive, I would have to set some other plan into action. And perhaps that would involve Colonel Thoreau.

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**AN: Kind of abrupt ending, I know—and I am **_**so**_** sorry for my prolonged absence! Life caught up with me for a while there, but I will be writing regularly again until this story is done, which it will be in only four more chapters!! Crazy. **

**Anyway, thank you so much to all of you who have stuck with me (especially TTT and SSS, the best betas a girl could ask for)!!! I hope you're still there, and I really hope you'll find this chapter more to your liking than the previous one. Your reviews were the main reason I didn't give this story up, so I hope you'll keep following Kat and Tavington to the end of their tale. (And Jamie Fraser, should he happen to pop back up… ;-)**

**Finally, this chapter is dedicated to Ensign Milner, seaman and patriot. A chimney and some flowers to him!**


	26. You Gon' Back That Thing Up?

**AN: This chapter contains adult themes. Again, my intent is not to offend anyone—if you think it deserves a higher rating, please let me know, and I will gladly switch it!**

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As it transpired, I didn't have the opportunity to deal with Tavington later that night, because he didn't come to my room. Nor did he come the next night, or the next, or the night after that... The only time I saw him, actually, was twice at dinner—at which point he was mute, sullen, and disappeared instantly the moment I tried to get anywhere near him. The second time this happened, I grabbed the arm of Cornwallis, who happened to be directly next me.

"Where is Colonel Tavington going?"

The General avoided my gaze. "Back to the camp, my dear!"

"At night? Why?"

Taking a sip of his brandy, Cornwallis still steadfastly avoided making eye contact with me. "Much to be done, my dear Mrs. Tavington! Getting settled in to the new camp, you know."

"But why—?" I pressed on, but the General interrupted me.

"Why don't you simply ask the Colonel, my dear?" chuckled Cornwallis. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" He wandered off toward the crowd, leaving me alone, frowning with annoyance at the situation.

But not for long. "Are you all right, Mrs. Tavington?" Colonel Thoreau had appeared abruptly at my elbow, a look of concern in his emerald eyes.

I smiled at him, though I couldn't quite shake off the frustration I felt. "Fine, I'm just…frustrated. At my husband," I responded to his querying look.

Thoreau's face changed slightly, and I could no longer quite read the expression in his eyes. "I am sorry to hear it," he said lightly. "Now, would you care for some punch?"

"No, thanks, I'm good," I said. "I actually think I'll go to bed soon."

"Of course you want to be well-rested for the ball tomorrow!" replied Thoreau, winking.

I smiled back at him. "Right. Good night, then!"

He responded with a low bow, at the end of which he took my left hand and lightly brushed it with his lips. "Until tomorrow," he said, his voice low.

I nodded, ignoring the shiver that had run down my spine at his touch, and slipped out of the grand dining room, unnoticed by anyone else. Ever since we had arrived at Applebottom, I had seen more of Thoreau than of anyone else. Everyone did seem to be busy, as Cornwallis said; but then why was Thoreau always around? Moreover, why was he so damn charming? I really had forgiven Tavington, and I wanted the opportunity to tell him so, but he was never in the house. And it was so difficult to remember why I wanted to forgive him in the first place when he wasn't around to remind me of all of the reasons I was attracted to him—and when Thoreau was there, being sympathetic and friendly and handsome. Except…well, I wasn't sure I trusted myself around him.

"Two weeks," I said to myself as I climbed up the stairs. "Two weeks, and you're gone."

Two weeks until the solstice—and then I'd be home. If I could just figure out how…

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I spent most of the next day antsy about nothing in particular that I could discern. Maybe it was the impending solstice and my lack of plan, maybe it was the ball that evening, maybe it was just the ongoing tension with Tavington that I was beginning to think would never end. Whatever it was, it was driving me _crazy_, and there was no one around to distract me. Even Rutledge—still under "house arrest," even though I doubted anyone was really watching him carefully at this point—was nowhere to be found. I still wasn't familiar with Applebottom, but I didn't much feel like wandering about the grounds, since the plantation was nowhere near as pretty as Peartree, even if it was grander. I missed my sewing room, and the back gardens, and the overall familiarity of the house. Besides, there were a million servants milling around Applebottom in preparation for the ball, which wasn't exactly conducive to exploration.

Basically, I was just in a bad mood, and the lack of company did nothing to appease me. I tried to read—I'd found a copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ in the ground floor library the day before—but it was not holding my interest as I'd hoped. Frustrated, I threw the book on to the bed and turned my attention to the wardrobe, intent on deciding what I would wear that evening. Might as well start getting ready now—I had nothing else to do, and I would damn well look my best. One way or another, I was going to make Tavington talk to me tonight.

As I was thumbing through the dresses, my attention was caught by one I hadn't noticed before. Pulling it out from the wardrobe, I surveyed it. Framed at the neck and cuffs by beautiful lace, the dress was a beautiful emerald green—exactly the color (I couldn't help but think) of Colonel Thoreau's eyes. I had never seen a dress like this, and I was most definitely going to wear it. If this was to be my last ball, I would go out in style.

Fifteen minutes later, though, as I was still trying to force my way into the dress, I realized this would be easier said than done. "Oh, _bugger_ it," I grunted aloud as I got tangled between the layers for the millionth time. Just then, I heard a voice, disconcertingly close.

"You need help, Mrs. Tavington," said Mithuna from outside my door.

"How did you know," I growled, then sighed. I _did_ need help, and like it or not, Mithuna was my only hope. Even if it was sort of creepy the way she showed up randomly all the time. "Come in."

As always, she seemed to float rather than walk. In my week at Applebottom, I had seen Mithuna perhaps more than anyone else, and despite repeated conversations, I was no closer to understanding who she was, why she was at the plantation, or what she was talking about. Ever.

"Sit down," she said, indicating the dressing table, and I sat, arms awkwardly over my head, still entangled in the dress. But somehow, less than a minute later, I was arrayed properly in my dress as Mithuna laced up the back.

"Thanks," I said, grateful in spite of myself. But when I started to stand up, she placed her hands firmly on my shoulders and pushed me back into my seat.

"Sit down," she repeated, now doing something with my hair. I sighed, but complied.

"Where are you from?" I asked, knowing the answer would be anything but elucidating. Mithuna did not disappoint.

"I am a child of the world," she said.

"Where did you grow up?" I tried again.

She took her time in answering as she continued working on my hair. "I am a friend of the woodland creatures."

"_What_?!" I said, shocked in spite of myself. Her answers were always strange, but…woodland creatures?

She didn't say anything further, just smiled serenely and stepped back. "Look," she said.

I obeyed, turning to look at myself in the mirror. I had no idea how she had done it in two minutes, but my hair looked better than it had for prom, piled elegantly atop my head with a few tendrils hanging down. "Thank you," I said again, and meant it.

"Yes," she said, gliding toward the door. "I shall see you for dinner." And with that, she disappeared.

I looked at myself in the mirror again. I looked good, if I did say so myself. Who cared if Mithuna was slightly crazy? The woman was a genius. 'Woodland creatures,' though…

Humming, I continued to get ready.

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Colonel Tavington was most intensely disgruntled as he buttoned his boots in preparation for the ride to Applebottom. Not only were the boots far from well-polished—Lawrence would most decidedly pay for that, he had been shirking his duties of late, and goodness knows what he'd been up to—but Tavington was not at all in the mood for a ball. Normally a ball would be an excellent opportunity to bring his wife back under his power, though of course he would not dance. But tonight—Thoreau would be there.

Thoreau, ever the kink in Tavington's plans. Of course Thoreau was quite the dancer, and Tavington was far from looking forward to seeing his wife dancing with that kinky bastard. The situation with Kat looked almost hopeless…

But Tavington was not in the habit of brooking disappointment, and he would be damned if he went down without a fight. He would win Kat back, even if it meant—watching Lawrence for ideas. Shaking his head grimly at the depths to which these unfortunate circumstances had taken him, Tavington buttoned his coat and strode out of his tent.

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The first thing I noticed when I arrived downstairs in the foyer, despite the crowds of people in various colors, was Lawrence's scarf. It looked somehow more scarlet and—larger—than I had ever realized. He seemed to be sporting it slightly differently, perhaps to impress Mithuna; and it seemed to be working, as she was staring fixedly at it from the other side of the grand staircase. "Mrs. Tavington!" he said, somewhat superciliously, when he spotted me. "You look magnificent!"

"As do you," I said, grinning. "Have you seen—?" But he had already nanced away, across the room to where Mithuna stood. I shook my head and caught the eye of Lieutenant Bligh, who was staring incredulously after his bescarfed friend.

He nodded at me. "How're you going?"

"Okay," I said, wondering at his odd turn of phrase. "You?"

He nodded again, "All right, eh."

"Have you seen Colonel—?" I tried again, but again I was interrupted.

"Thoreau at your service," said the Colonel I had not been trying to find. "You look…" He ran his eyes down my body, making me blush. "…stunning."

"Thank you," I said, still blushing furiously. "Have you seen my husband, Colonel?"

A slight frown creased his brow, but his expression evened out again immediately. "I am afraid not. I hope, however, to entice your thoughts away from him," he said, a mischievous smile crossing his face as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small book. "I have something for you."

He handed me the book, his hand lingering for a moment on mine as he did so. Suppressing a shiver, I flipped it open. "Shakespeare's sonnets?" I looked up at him, smiling. "I love Shakespeare! Thank you!"

"My pleasure," he said, voice low, green eyes fixed on mine. "Would you be so kind as to allow me to escort you into the supper room?"

I nodded. Then a thought crossed my mind. "Sorry, could you—hang on a second?" I turned my back to the room and—discretely, I hoped—stuffed the book down the front of my dress with every intent of storing it in a better location as soon as I got the chance; for the moment, this would have to do. I turned back to Thoreau. "Okay, I'm good."

He smiled broadly at me and offered me his arm. "Shall we?"

I couldn't help but feel that something was not quite right with Thoreau, but I couldn't pinpoint it…and anyway, if Tavington wasn't going to show up, I might as well enjoy the evening to the best of my ability. And the book was really so sweet of him, even if it was making me slightly uncomfortable at the moment…. I put my hand on his elbow, and together we swept into the dining room.

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Colonel Tavington, as he viewed his wife stand up at the end of dinner and sweep away on the arm of Thoreau, did not suppose that it was possible to be any more displeased than he currently was. Downing the last of his current glass of port, he too stood up, rather too quickly. Thanking the powers that be that they were no longer at Peartree, where Rutledge would have felt obliged to give a post-dinner speech and then a concert, he strode into the ballroom.

Where he was immediately assaulted by Charlotte and Marianne Brocklehurst. About whom, truth be told, he had almost forgotten. Certainly he no longer had any idea which was which.

"Colonel _Tavington_!" cooed one, seizing his left arm.

"We've so been _longing_ to see you!" breathed the other, attaching herself to his right.

Just as Tavington was contemplating how best to remove himself from the situation, he spotted Lawrence and that odd girl he was always hanging about with these days. Lawrence's expression was supremely pompous, the woman's vapidly pleasant. "Colonel Tavington," Lawrence said superciliously, spotting his superior. "Have you met Mithuna?"

"Pleasure," said Tavington drily, bowing as best he could with both of his arms entangled. And then the music started, and the couples whirled away onto the dance floor: Lawrence and that Mithuna woman, but also—his wife and Thoreau.

Tavington felt his blood boil. But before he could do anything about Kat, he would have to detach himself from the Brocklehurst girls. Unceremoniously, he unhooked his left arm; but to his dismay, the one on his right arm only clung the harder. The one that had been on his left looked enormously affronted. "Aren't you going to ask me to dance, Colonel?" she pouted.

"No, he's going to dance with _me_ first, Charlotte!" cried her sister.

Tavington interrupted the argument before it began. "I am in no humor to dance, and if I were, I should not ask either of you," he growled. "If you'll pardon me." Leaving both women aghast behind him, he began to pick his way across the dance floor, couples swirling about him.

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I had just finished dancing the first two with Thoreau and was trying to catch my breath when Tavington appeared abruptly from the dance floor. He bowed shortly, not looking at me.

"Tavington, old boy!" drawled Thoreau. "Pleasure to see you."

"Likewise," growled Tavington, looking far from pleased.

"Your wife is a magnificent dancer, I must say," continued Thoreau. "I don't think you've had the pleasure yet this evening…?" I had the sense that I was a mere object in what appeared to be a power struggle. I noted with a thrill the fire that raged in Tavington's eyes as they met mine briefly before he returned his gaze to Thoreau.

But before Tavington could retort, Lawrence and Mithuna emerged from the crowd. Lawrence bowed, but my attention was focused on Mithuna, who was now sporting Lawrence's scarf.

"Mrs. Tavington," began Lawrence. "Isn't this—?"

"Yes," interrupted Mithuna dreamily. "Doesn't Mrs. Tavington have lovely eyes?" she said to no one in particular. "Come, Lieutenant." With that, she dragged him back onto the dance floor, leaving me behind with the Colonels.

"You _do_ have lovely eyes," said Thoreau, but for some reason I felt as though this comment were addressed more to Tavington than to me. And it was Tavington who responded.

"If you'll pardon us," he snarled. Thoreau looked mildly affronted, but I had little time to consider this before I found myself being swept out onto the dance floor by my husband. Forcefully.

He spun me away from him, and just as abruptly I was back in his arms. He was leading me through a very fast waltz, fluidly, as though he did it every day. Before I could ponder the oddity of the situation, his voice was in my ear. "What the bloody _hell_ do you think you are doing?"

My anger flared up, as it always did when he took an accusatory tone, but I was overwhelmed by Tavington's physical proximity. "I was just being friendly."

He snorted, leading me through a complicated turn. When he pulled me close again, he growled, "With a man like Thoreau, a woman is never 'just being friendly'."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I was closer to him than I had been in what seemed like weeks, and I was having trouble focusing; my instinct was just to collapse into his arms.

"It means, my dear _Mrs. _Tavington, that you have crossed a line." The only real part of this conversation was Tavington's hand on my waist, guiding me around the floor, the faint musky smell of cologne dulling my senses.

"Well, what did you want me to do?" I demanded. "I was looking for you, and you weren't anywhere—"

"I was under the impression you were angry with me," he said, twirling me once more and then pausing. I was now being held completely by Tavington without any idea how I'd gotten there, my arms around his neck, my face turned up to his.

Looking into his eyes, clear blue with a hint of the anger I had seen earlier, I had to tell the truth. "I'm not," I whispered. "Not anymore."

He held my gaze a moment longer, then pushed me away from him. "Then I will leave you to make your own decision."

I stood at the edge of the dance floor where he had left me, still breathing heavily, and watched him disappear out of the ballroom. What had that meant? And why had he left me there?

I wandered off toward the refreshments, hoping that a drink would clear my head and help me to think through my conversation with Tavington. After what seemed like an hour of dodging people, I reached the drink table and seized a glass of punch. I sipped for a moment, trying to make sense of his cryptic statements. But my drink offered no elucidation, and as I stared into my empty glass, I was no closer to a solution. What decision was I supposed to make?

A booming "Mrs. Tavington!" interrupted my thoughts. I sighed inwardly, but managed a smile for the General.

"Good evening, General," I said.

"You look marvelous, my dear!" he said, chuckling. "It's no wonder you're so popular with my officers! But really, Mrs. Tavington," he continued, his voice abruptly becoming serious, "I speak for everyone when I say—it was such a treat to see you and Colonel Tavington dancing just now. Such superior dancing has rarely been seen!"

"Thank you," I began, but Cornwallis was not done.

"Of course, Colonel Thoreau is also an excellent dancer, as I'm sure you know," he said, taking a glass of punch from the table and sipping from it. "I've long looked forward to seeing him dance with his wife."

The empty glass I was still clutching dropped to the floor and shattered, along with what was left of my wits. Everyone around me looked at me distastefully and stepped back slightly. "Sorry," I said, still somewhat shocked. "Thoreau has a wife?" I tried to keep my tone casual.

"Just married last year, yes." Cornwallis continued sipping his punch as though I hadn't just smashed a crystal goblet on the floor. "Beautiful girl, by all accounts. I believe Colonel Tavington was once an admirer of hers as well! But my dear, I do think things have worked out for the best," he finished, smiling paternally at me and patting me on the arm. "Capital!" He wandered away toward the orchestra.

Thoreau was _married_. All this time I had imagined that I was being admired by a handsome, single officer—the way I'd imagined it was supposed to be, if I were going to have an 18th century romance—and I had been flattered (why bother pretending to myself?). What was the harm in making Tavington jealous? It wasn't as though I'd _wanted_ to be married, had even wanted to come here in the first place, and why shouldn't I enjoy myself? But now I saw quite plainly that I was only an object to Thoreau, just a pawn in some ongoing macho power play between him and Tavington, and I was angry. They were going to pay. And I would deal with Thoreau later, on my own time—but Tavington, I wanted _now_.

I stormed out of the ballroom and through the dining room, into the now empty foyer and up the staircase, forgetting all tiredness, my sights set only on Tavington. I had a hunch that I would find him in my room. And sure enough, when I threw open the door, there he was. Angry though I was, I could not help but notice his state of disarray: boots and coat off, shirt unbuttoned, hair loosened from its queue. He eyed me warily, but I preempted him, slamming the door as I came in.

"What the hell was that about?" I demanded, marching toward him. "Why didn't you tell me Thoreau was married?"

"I assumed you knew," he said coolly. "After all, why should you care for another woman's marriage when you don't honor your own?"

"That is not true and you damn well know it!" I was getting angrier by the second. "You were using me to bait Thoreau!"

"What?" His eyes narrowed; he seemed genuinely taken aback by the accusation.

"Cornwallis told me," I spat, taking another step toward him. "You wanted the woman Thoreau married, and instead you got me. Did you think you could trade? Well, that's not how it works! This isn't fricking _Wife Swap_!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" he growled, moving closer to me. "I have no idea what rumors the General has heard, but the charms possessed by Thoreau's wife are related solely to her large estate."

"Which just makes you a golddigger!" I was getting progressively angrier. "Don't act like you're some kind of saint compared to Thoreau!"

"And what would you possibly know about that?" he breathed, his face mere inches from mine. "Have you become so well acquainted with Thoreau in the last week that you would be willing to vouch for his character over mine?"

"Maybe!" I didn't know quite what he was getting at; I just wanted to make him as mad as I was. "It's not like I know you that well either! You're never here, and even when you are it's not like you _talk_ to me!" His face had adopted an ugly look at the insinuation that I might prefer Thoreau's company to his, but I pressed on. "At least Thoreau's a gentleman!"

"A _gentleman_," he snarled back at me. "You truly believe that his attempt to seduce you has been gentlemanly?"

"He wasn't seducing me!"

"No?" His voice had adopted a mocking tone. "What precisely would you call it?"

"I—I would—" I was suddenly at a loss for words, but I ignored this and moved on. "It's none of your business, anyway!"

Abruptly, he grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. "I beg your pardon, _Mrs._ Tavington," he whispered dangerously, "but it is entirely my business."

He pulled me toward him, and entirely without meaning to I was kissing him, lost in a wave of passion that made me forget my anger, forget everything except his lips on mine and his hands in my hair. This was so natural, so _right_, and I for a moment I couldn't remember why it wasn't always like this—

"Ow," I said, pulling away suddenly. Something sharp had poked my chest when Tavington had drawn me to him—Thoreau's book. "Damn," I said under my breath, knowing things were about to get dicey. I took a deep breath and plunged my hand into my dress, pulling out the little book of sonnets, avoiding Tavington's gaze as I did so.

The astonishment that had appeared on Tavington's at my unsubtle movement quickly evaporated when he saw the book. "What is that?" His voice was deadly calm.

I didn't really want to tell him—couldn't we just ignore the interruption?—but I figured it was best to get it over with. "A gift," I said.

He said nothing, merely reached out and took the sonnets from me. He opened the book, glanced at the first page, and then spat, "_Thoreau_." He threw the book of sonnets across the room, where it collided with the wardrobe and careened off to lie open on the floor. I was scared; I had never seen Tavington lose control of his anger to the point of physical action, though I knew from hearsay that it happened. But I didn't see what I could possibly say that would ease the situation, and so we both stood, still breathing heavily, Tavington not looking at me.

Abruptly, he turned back toward me. "I want to make something perfectly clear," he said, his ice-blue eyes practically boring a hole into mine as he stepped back toward me. "You are my wife." Each word was clearly enunciated, weighted equally. "And therefore, you belong to _me_."

I stood my ground, staring straight back into his eyes. "I might be your wife, but I am no one's property."

Tavington stood for a moment staring at me, chest heaving, before he pulled out his knife.

"What are you—" I took a step back, fearing that I had finally pushed him over the edge, but he pulled me to him again, the knife pressed against my back. I was terrified, but I couldn't even think fast enough to voice my protestations. Abruptly he twisted me around so my back was to him, and with one swift upward motion, the laces of my dress were cut open. Realizing that I was exposed, I leapt back, hands clutched to my breast to hold up the remnants of my ruined dress. But it wasn't working—the lace was slipping off my shoulders, and I felt a cool breeze sweep across my blushing skin.

He tossed the knife away. "I would remind you, as I have before, that you swore before God and man to honor and _obey_ me." He took a step toward me, a dangerous look in his eyes.

Strengthening my resolve, I decided that two could play at this game. "Maybe we have different definitions of obedience…" I said, coolly running my eyes up and down the length of his body. It didn't seem to faze him, though, and I realized I would have to step up my game. "…_Willy_."

The effect of using a nickname was almost comical. "_Do not call me_—" he began through gritted teeth, starting toward me again, but I interrupted him.

"I'll call you anything I damn well please," I said, and pounced at him. The hardy linen of his shirt was no match for my determination. I took the garment in my hands and tore with all of my might, sending the cumbersome buttons across the room. I ran my hands up and down his well-defined chest, pausing momentarily in my task in appreciative reflection. The man really was _built_.

But the advantage I had gained with my ambush had now evaporated, and Tavington's large hands grasped my wrists and pushed me back forcibly, pulling my sleeves down and exposing my breasts. I pushed back just as forcibly, shoving him against the wall. I kissed him fiercely, my hand grasping at the buttons on his breeches.

He clearly was not about to allow me to dictate the terms of this engagement. He grasped my waist, and I let him take the lead as he swung me around and pressed my back against the wall. With one hand he cupped my breast, and with the other he set to task on his troublesome pants. His fingers were surprisingly nimble at navigating the complexities of eighteenth century men's fashion. But Tavington, ever the consummate soldier, was nothing if not thorough. The buttons finally undone, he turned back to me with a triumphal spark in his eye—and, without warning, pulled my dress off.

My squeal of shock was instantly stifled by the firm weight of Tavington's lips on mine, and for a moment nothing else existed but our kiss. After a moment he desisted, redirecting his kiss from my mouth to my neck, muscular arms still wrapped firmly around me. I couldn't think, could barely breathe. My husband was growing impatient. I was powerless against his raw strength, tested against so many men…there was no way I could resist, even if I had wanted to. I gave myself over to the flow of passion and lost myself in his arms.

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Just down the hall at Applebottom, Bligh was having quite a different sort of evening. He had gotten into an argument with Milner that had absorbed most of the ball, and by the time he got upstairs to the guest room he would be sharing with Lawrence, he wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed immediately.

But it was not to be. Upon opening the door, Bligh found Lawrence sprawled on his bed, scarf askew but still dressed, calmly munching on a large piece of chocolate cake. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, mate?" exclaimed Bligh.

"I was _hungry_!" said Lawrence, mouth still full of cake. "All that dancing, you know…"

"Then why didn't you eat downstairs, like everyone else, eh?"

Lawrence looked away shiftily. "Well, to be truthful, Mithuna was sort of controlling, really. Couldn't get a moment of peace."

Sighing loudly, Bligh sank down onto the other bed and began to undo his boot with a gargantuan hand. "Well, don't come crying to me when you've got crumbs all in your undergarments."

Lawrence's undoubtedly annoyed reply was drowned out by a loud knock on the door. A moment later, the door opened, revealing Milner and Rutledge. They entered, the Baron bringing up the rear.

"Everything all right?" said Rutledge breezily.

Bligh groaned. All he wanted was to go to sleep, and now… He turned his back on the tableau, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with Milner. Bloody peacock.

But everyone's attention seemed to have been caught by Lawrence, who had tried unsuccessfully to hide the remnants of his cake behind his back.

"What are you doing?" inquired Rutledge.

"Nothing," said Lawrence unconvincingly. But the Baron had figured it out.

"Vat do you zer, vis ze _Kuchen_ in ze bed?" he inquired. "Ze crumbs will all come up in your _Pyjama_!"

As the room erupted into laughter and Lawrence began to protest vociferously, Bligh groaned, throwing himself onto his bed and pulling the sheet over his head. It would be a long night.

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	27. I'm The Troublestarter, Punkin Instigata

When I opened my eyes the next morning, a stream of sunlight was pouring in through the slit in the curtains of the east window. I turned my head away from the light and saw Tavington—no, _William_—still asleep. He looked so peaceful, his expression serene, his chest moving gently up and down. Remembering last night, and seeing him now, I couldn't help but smile. The moment I did, however, his eyes opened, as if he had somehow felt my gaze.

"Good morning," I said.

He cocked an eyebrow. "I suppose it must be, given your otherwise inexplicable cheerfulness."

I giggled. "For someone who gets up at the crack of dawn every day, you don't strike me as much of a morning person."

He propped himself up on an elbow and frowned down at me. "I do not usually have a reason to be in good humor in the morning. Today, however…"

"Are you trying to say that I make you happy?"

He leaned over and kissed me firmly. "Perhaps. But certainly not when you stare at me while I sleep."

"It was cute!" I protested. This did not seem to be what he wished to hear; his eyes glinted dangerously at the suggestion that I found him to be anything but fearsome, so I changed the subject quickly, grasping at the first thing I thought of. "Um—why don't you like poetry?"

He didn't look especially happy about this topic either. "_Poetry_," he spat, "is what weak-minded fools spout to make themselves seem worldly."

"That's pretty harsh," I said, amused by his vehemence. Normally, I would have taken issue with his viewpoint, but I wanted to get to the root of his illogical hatred. "When you say 'weak-minded fools'…?"

"Thoreau," he growled, "was known while we were at Eton for quoting poetry at every opportunity. It endeared him to the literature and classics professors and earned him a certain following among his peers, but the more intelligent among us realized that he was nothing but a simpleton gifted with a decent memory."

Wow. This hatred for Thoreau went deeper than I had imagined. "So basically you hate poetry because it reminds you of Thoreau."

"I do not _hate_ poetry," he snapped. "I merely find it distasteful the way it is used by certain parties in all circumstances to ingratiate themselves into high society."

"Okay," I said cautiously, since this conversation was clearly not to Tavington's taste, "but every time you've come into contact with poetry since I met you…"

But he didn't seem to be paying attention. His pale blue eyes were locked onto mine with an intensity that made me lose my focus. His voice low and husky, he began speak. "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red" – here he paused to kiss me briefly – "If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head."

I was utterly shocked: Tavington and Shakespeare were not exactly a logical couple. But his voice and the look in his eyes held me entranced as he continued to recite.

"I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground."

He paused, and for a moment I thought he wouldn't finish the sonnet. But he did, his voice barely above a whisper.

"And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare."

Speechless, I could only stare at my husband. He looked mildly annoyed at my shock. "I assure you, I too possess the capacity to memorize a few lines of verse. It is not a talent unique to your enchanting Colonel Thoreau."

He rolled away from me and sat up, but I wasn't ready to let the conversation end just yet. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders from behind, and he froze at the edge of the bed. "Hang on," I said. "Is it possible you're jealous of Thoreau because of me?"

He stiffened, but didn't answer. "Then let me just say that you, not Thoreau, are the 'enchanting' one." That did it—he turned back toward me, looking simultaneously pleased and enraged. "And anyway," I continued, "I think I have some cause for jealousy, if that's what we're talking about." Now I'd gotten his attention; I took a deep breath and went for it. "Were you in love with Thoreau's wife?"

Tavington actually chuckled. "Hardly. Any charms possessed by that woman are related solely to her father's estate."

"Oh," I said, feeling somewhat sheepish. "Good, then."

"Quite," he agreed, looking searchingly at me. A moment later I found myself on my back against the pillows, the weight of Tavington's body pressing down upon me. "Now that we've established that," he murmured, dropping a kiss onto my neck, "perhaps we might move onto a more interesting topic."

"More poetry?" I said, trying to preserve mental clarity as my heart began to pound. Tavington snorted derisively. "Really, if your goal was to seduce me with a sonnet…"

"Kat," he said, "I hardly think I need a sonnet to seduce you." He silenced my protest with a full-on kiss, and I had to admit—the man _did_ have a point.

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I had not forgotten that I had a score to settle with Thoreau, but it was not exactly foremost on my mind that afternoon; I was more inclined to daydream. Cutting unpleasantly into my daydreams, however, was the constant alarm in my brain reminding me that the solstice was a week away. I needed a plan, but no epiphany was coming…and maybe I even had something of a mental block because I didn't want to think about leaving Tavington.

As I wandered around the grounds, I became conscious of a squawking noise and a disgruntled voice that sounded like Lawrence. "Milner! It's right behind you! Just bend down and take it!"

I rounded a corner in the shrubbery and came into a large grass clearing, where a peculiar sight met my eyes. Milner and Lawrence, scarf askew, were chasing a large and very fast-moving black rooster around the garden, yelling instruction at one another as they did so. I backed away, giggling silently so as not to disturb them in their quest. Still laughing, I turned around—and collided with Bligh. "Ooh!" I said, trying to stop laughing. "S-sorry."

"Pardon," said Bligh, peering around the corner from which I had just come. He emitted a loud sigh and rolled his eyes.

"What's going on over there?" I had finally gotten my laughter under control.

"Lawrence and Milner are always chasing that cock," said Bligh, running a cyclopean hand through his hair. "It got loose last week somehow. They've been after it ever since."

"Why?" I figured the question was probably useless; I had learned by now that there were a great many inexplicable things about Lieutenant Lawrence.

"Dunno," said Bligh. "I reckon Milner wants to eat it, or something."

"Head it off!" came Lawrence's voice. "Take it now, Milner!"

There came the sound of a thud, then Milner's voice. "I can't grasp it, it's too fast."

Bligh sighed again. "I'd better go help, eh. Never get a moment's peace until we catch that cock."

I nodded, bursting into another peal of laughter as I watched Bligh gallop resolutely into the fray. They were an entertaining bunch, and I would miss them…but of course I missed my parents, and Paris, too, and it was on them that my thoughts were focused as I wandered away into the apple orchard. As I strolled under the shade of the leafy boughs, I was forcibly reminded of a similar walk I had taken last fall with Paris, when I had first decided to apply to Harvard…ironically, it seemed like a lifetime ago, when it was actually—many lifetimes in the future.

"How did this happen?" I said aloud.

"I was just asking myself that very question," came Thoreau's voice from behind me, making me jump. He stepped out from behind a tree, smiling, his eyes looking more vivid than ever amongst the greenery that surrounded us. "I wonder if we might be pondering the same point?"

I wouldn't have been pleased to have my solitude disturbed by almost anyone, and Thoreau was definitely not at the top of the list. "Hi," I said shortly, turning away slightly and hoping he'd take the hint.

"I was thinking about _you_, as a matter of fact," he continued, ignoring my abruptness. "Kat…" He grabbed my hand, and I whirled around to face him, shocked by his boldness. "At the risk of being repetitious, I must say—you do have the most enchanting eyes," he said, still smiling pleasantly.

"You shouldn't be talking to me like this," I snapped, snatching my hand away. "Or did you forget that you have a _wife_?"

He blinked, but recovered quickly. "So I do," he said smoothly. "But if you understood the circumstances—if you knew her—perhaps you would see why it is that you have so captivated me." He moved closer to me, and I took a step backward.

"Sorry, but I'm married too, just to remind you. _Happily_ married," I added. Which may not have been true the day before, but it certainly was now.

Thoreau chuckled, as if he hadn't heard what I'd just said. "You're a bewitching woman, Kat. You keep me on my toes." He stepped toward me again, and I instinctively took another step back. My spine was now pressed against an apple tree, and I was beginning to feel slightly panicked. "I should like to get to know you much more…intimately."

He grabbed my upper arms, pinning them at my sides, and planted his lips on mine before I could even think about extracting myself. I struggled, enraged, but his grip was too strong—I was trapped between the tree and his body. But just as I was beginning to panic, I heard a metallic ringing from behind Thoreau, and he stiffened, pulling away from me slightly.

"Step away from my wife," growled Tavington. Thoreau did so slowly, leaving me shaken and grasping the tree trunk for support.

Thoreau smiled again, superciliously, ignoring the fact that the edge of Tavington's sword was pressed against his throat. "Come off it, Tavington, old boy," he said, as though the whole thing were a joke.

Tavington lowered his sword slowly, never taking his eyes off Thoreau. "A duel, sir. 8 o'clock in the morning, tomorrow. The choice of weapon is yours."

Thoreau laughed lightly. "How quaint!" he exclaimed. "A duel to avenge the supposed injury your lady, whose honor I have no doubt impugned grievously. Sometimes you seem almost medieval, my dear fellow." Smirking, he turned away, but Tavington moved to block his path.

"I assure you I am in earnest," he snarled. "Choose your weapon."

Thoreau looked surprised for a moment but recovered quickly. "Of course you are. All right—sabres. We shall have a bit of a fencing match! Just like the old days…. Though of course you wouldn't wish to relive the old days, would you, Tavington?" Tavington was still staring at him, hatred blazing in his eyes. Thoreau leaned in conspiratorially. "You know, don't you, that you can't win." It was a statement. "I've always beaten you, Tavington. Always. At Eton, afterwards, with Elizabeth" – that had to be his wife – "and now. It must sting a bit to realize that your _wife_ would rather be my…well, to use the polite phrase, wife in watercolors."

Tavington stepped forward so quickly, hand still on his sword, that I was sure he would murder Thoreau on the spot. I gasped, and Tavington's eyes flicked over to meet mine for the first time. Almost instantly, he looked back at Thoreau, but something in his manner had changed. "Enough," he growled. "Eight in the morning tomorrow, on the west lawn."

Thoreau chuckled again, imperiously. "Eight o'clock," he repeated. "You'll want to get in a bit of practice between now and then, Tavington." He walked away without looking at me, still laughing, leaving me alone with my husband.

I couldn't look him in the eye. I knew what it must have looked like to Tavington when he walked into the situation, and the last thing I wanted was to fight with him again.

"Are you all right?" He said it stiffly, but even those words were enough to set me off. I burst into tears and threw myself at him.

"I'm sorry!" I sobbed into his coat. "It wasn't—I know what you think, but I swear I didn't—he just grabbed me—I couldn't—"

He made a shushing noise as his arms wrapped around me tightly and kissed the top of my head. "I know," he murmured into my hair. "I heard your conversation a moment before I intervened. You were not to blame."

We stayed as we were for a moment, Tavington stroking my hair soothingly, and gradually I stopped crying. Swallowing hard, I released my death grip on Tavington and stepped back, giving him a watery smile. "Thanks for rescuing me. You don't actually have to fight tomorrow, though, do you?"

Tavington smiled back at me, though he didn't look precisely happy. "I do."

"No!" I said, horrified. "That whole duel thing—that was just a formality, wasn't it? It's not like he actually hurt me."

"He forced himself upon you, damaged your reputation and insulted me," said Tavington calmly. "I shall take the high road and behave like a gentleman. We will duel tomorrow."

"How is that the high road?" I was beginning to panic again.

"I refrained from slitting his throat just now, which you must admit shows an admirable degree of self-restraint," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"How can you joke about this?" I demanded, stepping back toward him. "You could be hurt! And it would be my fault!"

"Please don't blame yourself," he said seriously. "Thoreau has had this coming for years."

"So this is a vendetta," I retorted. "That makes me feel a lot better."

"Kat." He took my hands in his. "There is no choice. I will fight Thoreau, and you may rest assured that I will win. That strutting poppycock will never come near you again."

"And what if you're injured in the process?"

He took my hands in his and leaned down to kiss me. "At least I have something to look forward to," he said lightly. "After all, if you're 'happily married,' I must be as well."

What was shaping up to be quite the romantic moment was abruptly interrupted by a squeal from behind us. I detached myself from my husband and whirled around to see Milner on his knees several yards away from us, clutching the black rooster for dear life. "You've got the cock at last!" cried Lawrence, appearing behind him. Bligh loped in after them. At the same moment, all three seemed to realize that they were not alone and turned toward us.

"_Lawrence!_" Tavington bellowed. "Get yourself, the cock, and that bloody scarf out of my sight this instant!"

Lawrence didn't need telling twice. Milner and Bligh were close on his heels, Milner still grasping the rooster. And I was left laughing hysterically, my irate husband at my side.

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I never knew quite how I got through that night. I know Thoreau wasn't at dinner, and I must have seemed horribly distracted, what with all of my worrying about the impending duel. Oddly, though, Tavington seemed perfectly calm, even happy: he chuckled politely at Cornwallis's jokes and even spoke to Rutledge once or twice. I did notice that he took Lawrence aside at one point and spoke to him quite seriously, though I supposed that had to do with the rooster affair.

When Tavington bid everyone good night after dinner, I didn't know whether to be thankful that dinner was over or petrified at what was to come in the morning. "How can you be so calm?" I demanded as he steered me up the staircase.

"I might ask why it is that you are so frightened," he said lightly, his hand tightening ever so subtly over mine. "Have you no faith in my ability with a sword?"

"It's not that, I just—is dueling even allowed?" I was grasping for anything that would diffuse the situation.

He frowned. "Strictly speaking, the practice is discouraged among officers of His Majesty's Army. Unofficially, however, it is accepted that matters of honor must be settled on occasion. And this is such an occasion."

I felt faint, though whether that was the effect of emotion or climbing the stairs too rapidly while wearing a corset, I couldn't be sure. "I'm sure General Cornwallis wouldn't be too happy to learn about it."

Tavington spun around to face me. "You will not tell him. After tomorrow morning, you may tell anyone you like, but until such time as the matter is settled, you will tell no one."

"But if—"

"That is the protocol," he interrupted. "This is how such affairs are dealt with."

I sighed, and we resumed our progress down the hall. As we entered our bedroom, I had a final thought. "A second! You need a second, don't you? You can't duel without a second!"

His brow furrowed in an expression of annoyance I had seen many times before. "It has been arranged."

"Who is it?" I pressed, both concerned and curious.

He was bent down undoing his boots, and he mumbled something that I couldn't hear. "Who?" I asked again.

He pulled off the boots and turned to face me. "Lawrence," he growled.

"Wait. _Lieutenant_ Lawrence? _Why?_" I was shocked.

He sighed, then began to unbutton his waistcoat. "Despite his manifold objectionable characteristics, Lawrence does have some skill with a blade—or he should have, given the amount that he practices. He is surprisingly loyal. And, coincidentally, he should be punished for that ridiculous episode this afternoon. I didn't force him into it," he said, answering my unvoiced question. "When I explained the situation to him in the supper room tonight, he volunteered."

I couldn't shake my bad feeling, and the idea of Lawrence getting involved didn't exactly reassure me. Tavington stepped toward me, placing his hands on my shoulders. "Kat. My dear. Kindly stop looking at me as though I am already deceased. I have no intention of leaving you a widow when we have just begun to enjoy the married life."

"That's not funny," I said shakily.

He pulled me to his chest and held me there. "I suppose it isn't. But I assure you, I am a skilled swordsman. I may not leave the field of battle uninjured, but I will decidedly leave it alive."

"Good," I said, and that was the last of our verbal communication for some time.

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I barely slept that night, and when Tavington finally got up and dressed, I too was fully awake. When I started to get out of bed, though, he stopped me with a look. "I hope you don't hold any fanciful notion that you are accompanying me."

"I'm coming with you," I announced, ignoring him. "You need moral support."

He sighed. "I appreciate the sympathetic gesture, but you will not come anywhere near this engagement." It was said with an air of finality. "The dueling ground is no place for a lady, and if I should lose, I do not want you within Thoreau's sight."

If there was a time to play obedient wife, it was now. "All right," I said, trying to sound convincingly disappointed. "I'll be waiting when—when you get back." Like I'd stay here when my husband was in danger.

He nodded, then turned to walk out of the room. I leapt out of bed. "You aren't even going to say goodbye?"

He turned to face me, and I knew then that his nonchalance was masking some degree of anxiety. I didn't know what else to say, so I just kissed him, trying to say everything I wanted to without using words. A moment later, he was gone.

And now it was time to get myself ready. I dressed quickly and brushed my hair, then stole down the stairs, through the foyer and outside.

The early morning sun signaled the beginning of what would clearly be a beautiful day. But as I picked my way through the landscaped gardens toward the west lawn, all I could think about was that I was scared, more scared than I'd ever been in my life. And I wasn't even the one doing the fighting. I tried to focus on something else—anything—but all I could think about was Tavington, the moments we'd had together, the last few days…I didn't want it all to be over yet.

Momentarily, I became aware that I must be nearing the dueling site. I saw two shadowy figures ahead of me, so I ducked behind a nearby tree and listened hard.

"You know, I've been caught in many a sticky wicket, but I say, this is the stickiest wicket of all!" It was Lawrence's voice, and he sounded quite nervous.

"I reckon you're right, eh," said Bligh. "Have you ever dealt a man a lethal blow?"

"Of course I have!" replied Lawrence indignantly. "And you know, I've been given quite a few blows in my day, but none has killed me yet!"

"That's the spirit," said Bligh.

"I'd better get on to the duel," said Lawrence. "Would you mind giving my sabre a quick polish? For luck?"

"Sure," said Bligh. I grinned and moved on past them through the outskirts of the garden. If this duel was going to take place, I felt oddly comforted to know that Lawrence—and apparently Bligh, too—would be there.

A moment later, I arrived at the edge of the west lawn. The last thing I wanted was to distract Tavington, so I decided to remain in the garden. I found a large shrub that I could see through and crouched behind it. The sun was just reaching over the top of the house, and as its rays hit the west lawn I could just make out four figures. Lawrence and Thoreau's second were standing back slightly, while Tavington and Thoreau seemed to be having one last moment of discussion. I was dying to know what they were saying, but of course that would have meant coming out of hiding. I looked around frantically and saw a small grove of trees some thirty feet to my left. If I could just get there without being noticed, I could probably hear what they were saying…

My eyes fixed on the scene in front of me, I took a deep breath and prepared to run for it—and someone grabbed me around the waist and clapped a colossal hand over my mouth. "Sorry," said Bligh, and I stopped struggling, astounded. He released me and I spun to face him, very nearly slapping him on principle.

"_What_ do you think you are doing?" I hissed. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"Sorry," Bligh repeated. "But you shouldn't distract the Colonel. Tavington, I mean."

"I know that!" I snapped. "I wasn't going to, I just wanted to hear what they were saying."

"You probably don't," he said reasonably. "They're just insulting each other. And you," he added.

"Really," I growled.

"Yeah, I heard Colonel Thoreau calling your marriage a 'Westminster wedding' earlier," he said, seemingly unaffected by the social indicators I was sending him. "You know, saying that Colonel Tavington was a rogue and you were…uh…a lady of the night."

"Thanks for telling me. Really, that was very helpful." Bligh at least had the decency to look abashed at my obvious anger, and I wondered momentarily if maybe I was channeling Tavington.

But just then, I heard a shrill yell from Lawrence. "Duel!" Bligh and I both turned instantly toward the battlefield. Thoreau and Tavington were circling each other warily for what seemed like an eternity. At last one of them lunged, and I honestly had no idea who was who anymore. The sun was in my eyes, and my heart was pounding as if I was the one fighting; all I could hear was my own breathing and the metallic ringing of their sabres. After some time—it could have been thirty seconds or half an hour, I couldn't tell—their blows began to make contact; first one sliced at the other's arm, then the second retaliated by hacking at the leg of the first. I gasped every time an injury occurred, but neither of the combatants seemed to notice. They were exceedingly well-matched, and each time one succeeded in hitting his target, revenge seemed to occur almost instantly. Finally, they drew apart, and I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.

"Ow," said Bligh, massaging his arm, and I realized I'd been clinging to it rather fiercely.

"Sorry," I said distractedly. "What's going on?"

"It's been fifteen minutes without a serious injury," said Bligh. "They get a three-minute rest."

"But—shouldn't the seconds be fighting or something?" I really had no idea how this was supposed to work, but my adrenaline rush couldn't accommodate a break in the action.

Bligh stared at me like I was crazy. "The seconds never really do anything. Unless one of the combatants dies and the debt's still unsatisfied."

I didn't respond, as this made me feel more hysterical than ever. I stared into the sunlight, trying to make out which of the silhouettes was my husband and which was Thoreau, but it was impossible: in the blinding light, the minute difference in their height and bearing was inconsequential, especially when they moved. And soon they did, resuming their battle stances.

"Duel!" yelled Lawrence again, and the blows began falling once more. But this time one of them had a distinct advantage; the other kept lurching forward unevenly, and the first took advantage of this to get a series of hits in. Still I couldn't tell who was who, and I was beginning to feel faint. "Please let it end," I muttered to myself. And then it did.

The one who had been unsteady on his feet fell forward, and the other towered above him and raised his sword high above his head. But as he swung it down to finish off his opponent, the figure crouched on the ground stabbed his blade straight into the abdomen of the standing figure. Then both fell forward.

I heard a scream and realized belatedly that it had come from my own mouth, but I had no time to think about that, as I was already well out of our hiding place and halfway across the lawn toward the site of the duel. All that mattered was to get there, though I had no idea what I would find—I had to see William, now.

I slowed down as I neared the figures on the ground. I was gasping for breath, tears running freely down my cheeks, and suddenly I felt unable to stand. Lawrence appeared next to me and placed a supporting arm around me. "Mrs. Tavington," he said, his face grave.

Before I could respond, one of the men on the ground in front of me stirred. Very slowly, Tavington raised himself to his feet and brushed off his coat. He was bleeding freely from the left arm, there were gashes all over his legs, he was moving in a way that indicated at least a couple of bruised ribs, and he appeared to have the beginnings of a black eye. But he looked, more than anything, pleased with himself—until he saw me, at least.

"What the devil do you think you are doing here?" he growled.

Only consummate self-control prevented me from throwing myself at him hard enough to knock him down again, and from the noise he made when I launched myself into his arms indicated that I might have done some more damage to his ribs. "Shut up," I said, and kissed him.

When we broke apart a moment later, his expression had lightened slightly. "I ordered you to stay in the house."

"Since when do I listen to you?" I let go of him and looked around me. Lawrence and Bligh were bending over Thoreau. He was still unconscious and seemed to be bleeding quite badly from the abdomen.

"Where'd his second go, eh?" Bligh demanded.

"Took off the second Colonel Tavington dealt Thoreau that last blow," said Lawrence scornfully.

"It's bright today," said Bligh. "Hard to tell who was who from where we were."

"Edward told me that the sun is always exceptionally bright the week before the solstice!" Lawrence replied chirpily.

"The solstice!" I gasped aloud. I had almost forgotten, but—

"I think it's time for another talk about wifely duty," growled my husband, seizing me once more.

I turned to look him in the eye and tell him precisely what I thought about 'wifely duty'—and in that instant, looking into his clear blue eyes, my mind was made up. The solstice would pass, and I wouldn't do anything: my life was here, and now. "I can't leave you," I said.

"Of course not," he replied impatiently. "You are my _wife_, and as I was just saying—" 

"No, I mean—I love you," I blurted. Bligh and Lawrence instantly stopped arguing about Rutledge and the solstice and turned toward us.

I was frozen where I stood, breathless, waiting for Tavington's response. He smiled faintly and leaned down to kiss me. "I know," he said, and released me to hobble over to Bligh and Lawrence to discuss what should be done with Thoreau.

I was left standing in the sunshine, pondering what had just happened. I hadn't realized how much I loved Tavington until the moment I realized how close I was to losing him, whether through his doing or my own. And I certainly hadn't meant to declare my love right then, but—well, it seemed to have gone over reasonably well, even if I hadn't gotten quite the response I'd hoped for. It would have to come eventually.

I tuned back into the conversation to Lawrence's gleeful exclamation. "Oh, isn't it brilliant that Milner finally got that cock yesterday afternoon? Now we can all have a taste of it at dinner this evening!"

Tavington groaned, Bligh rolled his eyes, but I just smiled. Whatever course my life would take from now on, it certainly wouldn't be dull.

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**AN: Thanks to William Shakespeare for tacitly allowing me to borrow his beautiful Sonnet 130. And to Ensign Milner, I dedicate this chapter in the hope that his previous experience aboard the Jolly Good serves him well in his future on the Iron Duke and beyond!**


	28. Don't Let The Bells End!

_December 1780_

Christmas had always been Lieutenant Bligh's favorite time of the year. He had fond memories of the holidays from his childhood, and his first Christmas riding with the Dragoons last year had been pleasant enough. Applebottom seemed a nice place to spend the season—it even seemed like there might be a chance for a white Christmas, though Bligh wasn't generally one for snow—and in any other circumstance, would have been rather excited for the holidays. Lawrence, though, was making it very hard to remember why he'd ever liked Christmas to begin with.

Not because his fellow lieutenant lacked holiday cheer, of course. On the contrary: Bligh felt that it would be beyond the realm of human emotional capacity to express more gaiety than Lawrence was at the moment. Here it was mid-December, and he'd already managed to deck the dining room at Applebottom with boughs of holly (where he'd gotten it, Bligh could only imagine), braid red ribbon into the tails of all of the Dragoons' horses (Colonel Tavington had not been particularly pleased)—and, in what Bligh felt was a particularly egregious act, hang mistletoe over the door of every room in the house, Cornwallis's included. Quite without meaning to, Lawrence had temporarily replaced Tavington as the person that everyone feared most: there was nothing worse than being forced into another round of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" when one was in an ill humor.

"This is ridiculous, mate," said Bligh. He had just stumbled upon Lawrence in the stables, where the latter was fitting a grotesque sort of frilly red bonnet onto the head of Daniel, his horse. "Is that a _bonnet_?"

"Androclus sent it," said Lawrence dully. He sighed heavily as he tied the ribbons around Daniel's neck, then stepped back to admire the effect of the red against Daniel's white mane.

But Bligh's attention had been caught by his friend's completely altered mood. "Is everything all right, eh?"

"No," said Lawrence, and sighed again as he sank onto a bale of hay. "In his letter, Androclus included a bit of verse he's composed."

"What's wrong with that?" Bligh was at something of a loss, as the verses of Androclus had formerly been extremely popular with Lawrence.

"It's an ode to a military man and his horse—it's called _Equus Miles Militus_," said Lawrence, now looking more depressed than ever, "but he's composed it with a friend."

"So?" Bligh still couldn't see the problem.

"Well—Androclus doesn't always exercise good judgment when it comes to his companions. And I'm terribly afraid this fellow is going to distract him from his studies!"

Bligh felt it wise not to point out that perhaps Androclus had not exercised good judgment where Lawrence was concerned, either. Instead, he made a noncommittal noise that he hoped sounded closer to sympathy than to laughter.

"Matthew!" spat Lawrence, glaring at Bligh as though he were to be blamed for the whole thing. "What kind of a name is Matthew, anyway?"

"Biblical," said Bligh.

"Some help you are!" said Lawrence, shooting up from his seat on the hay. "I'll just go bake some Christmas cookies, then, shall I? I don't need your cynicism!" He flounced out of the stables, leaving Bligh in bewilderment.

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As Tavington walked from the foyer into the dining room, the top of his head bumped the mistletoe hanging from the doorframe. "_Lawrence!_" he growled, reaching up to yank the mistletoe down and vowing to strangle said lieutenant with his own scarf the next time he saw him.

"Hey, be nice," came Kat's voice from behind him, and Tavington reluctantly dropped his arm, leaving the mistletoe intact, and turned to face his wife.

"It's Christmas," she said, coming up to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Poor Lawrence wants to celebrate, and you're determined to be Ebenezer Scrooge."

"Who?" Kat was forever making references to things that didn't exist, like this Scrooge, or "Oklahoma," or—what was it she'd said earlier today?—"Beyoncé," that was it. Tavington had long since accepted that she had some sort of hyperactive imagination that made it difficult for her to distinguish truth from the fictions she invented, and of course one had to make allowances. But really, Scrooge? Where did she come up with these words?

Kat blushed. "Oh—never mind. You're just being a grump, that's all."

Tavington frowned, but Kat was looking at him expectantly. "Yes?"

"I know you were trying to get rid of it, but the mistletoe is still there," she said pointedly.

"So it is," sighed Tavington, and bent down to kiss her properly.

They broke apart abruptly as they heard Cornwallis's voice boom out from the foyer. "How lovely it is to see you enjoying the mistletoe!" he chuckled. "It seems Lieutenant Lawrence's Christmas cheer is indeed infectious!"

"Indeed," Tavington growled.

"By all means, Colonel, carry on! I wouldn't wish to intrude," said the General jovially.

"Thank you, Milord, but I think there will be plenty of time for celebration later." Tavington sent Kat a quelling look, and she stifled her giggling.

"Oh, undoubtedly!" chortled Cornwallis, winking. He wandered into the dining room, giving Tavington a much-needed opportunity to roll his eyes.

"I saw that," Kat whispered. "Seriously, it wouldn't hurt you to be a little more cheerful. It's only a week until Christmas."

She was looking at him so earnestly he couldn't help but smile. "I shall try." She smiled back, gave his hand a quick squeeze and followed Cornwallis into the dining room. Tavington lingered behind, his eyes fixed on his wife. _Why_ was her condition not yet obvious? Certainly she must be with child by now; knowing Kat, he thought that she would probably wish to inform him, but perhaps she wished it to be a holiday surprise? Yes, that would be it. She had realized that she was carrying his heir, and had decided that she would keep it from him until Christmas.

This thought cheered him up considerably; in fact, as he strolled into the dining room, he almost felt infected by the holiday spirit. His life had undoubtedly taken a turn for the better in recent months, ever since the duel. He felt a surge of pride every time he thought of that contest, and his opponent: it had taken him the better part of a month to recover fully, but Thoreau's injuries were so severe that, as soon as he was judged to be fit for travel, he was sent back to London to recuperate. Between the utter defeat of his longtime enemy, the distinct upswing in his relations with Kat, and the day-to-day successes of the Dragoons, the situation was looking quite good, actually.

"I hope you've gotten Mrs. Tavington a nice present for Christmas, Colonel," said Cornwallis, bringing Tavington back to the present. "A lady so lovely as yours deserves only the best—I don't know what I was thinking, marrying her off to you! Well, I hope you've been taking that song of Lieutenant Lawrence's seriously, Colonel. Perhaps you won't be able to find ten lords a-leaping on such short notice, but you can certainly find five golden rings!" He tittered and ate a lemon drop.

Kat laughed, and Tavington managed an obedient chuckle for the sake of appearances. He was spared a need for response, however, as Rutledge ambled into the room at that moment. "Mistletoe!" he announced dramatically, pointing at the sprig dangling above his head. "Alas! I have not your fortune, Colonel Tavington, and no fair lady waits to kiss me under this auspicious bough!"

It was Tavington's instinct to roll his eyes again, but Kat was watching him. He settled for pinching the bridge of his nose quite hard and taking a swig of the mulled wine set out in front of him. Ignoring the continued discussion of that accursed plant, he said loudly, "Is anyone else to dine with us this evening?"

"I invited Lord Rawdon, the Baron, and that Bohemian fellow up from Charles Towne for the holidays. They arrived this afternoon and should be joining us any moment," answered Cornwallis. Tavington's fingers closed around his wine glass very tightly. The Baron and the Bohemian were tolerable, but his distaste for Rawdon was virulent. Pity the man was his superior; Tavington would have liked to dispose of him in the same way he had dealt with Thoreau…

"Colonel!" said Cornwallis loudly, and Tavington returned to the conversation with a start. "Much as I hate to disturb you from daydreams of your charming wife…"

"My apologies, Milord, how may I be of service?" Tavington took another sip of wine to distract himself from Rutledge's imperious snickering.

"I wish you to invite your lieutenants for Christmas dinner, Tavington. And that Milner fellow," announced Cornwallis. "The poor fellows have no place to spend the holiday! And Lieutenant Lawrence has done so much to brighten up the house." He indicated the holly that was spread liberally about the room—even, Tavington now noticed, in each dish in the china cabinet. He wondered briefly where Lawrence had gotten it, then decided he would rather not know.

"Yes, Milord," he said, finishing the glass of mulled wine. He felt Kat's eyes on him and knew she must be surprised; never before had he allowed Bligh and Lawrence to be included in festivities so willingly. But, much as he would have liked to point out that there were several hundred men in the camp with 'no place to spend the holiday,' he felt that it was best to save his argument for other quarters. After all, with his firstborn son most assuredly on the way, Tavington felt just now that he had little cause for complaint.

Just as he finished thinking this, however, several more people entered the dining room. First came the Baron, who wished them each a hearty "Good evening," and then the Bohemian, who said nothing at all. Finally, Lord Rawdon appeared in the doorway.

"Mistletoe!" he announced, pointing upward as he swept into the room. Tavington felt rather inclined to throttle something. "Milord, Rutledge," said Rawdon grandly, nodding at each of them in turn. "Ah, Rupert, how are you, my good fellow? And Mrs. Tavington!" Tavington allowed the inexplicable misnomer to pass, more concerned at present with the way his superior was leering at his wife. "My dear lady, you grow more enchanting as the months pass! Tell me, might I be permitted to examine more closely the lace on your gown?"

Tavington noticed that said lace happened to be positioned directly next to his wife's décolletage and elected to take matters into his own hands. "Perhaps another time, your Lordship," he growled, ignoring the blatant laughter coming from the corner occupied by Rutledge.

"Yes, all right, no need to get your knickers in a twist, Roger," said Rawdon affably, settling into the seat on the other side of Kat.

Tavington bit his tongue and poured himself another glass of mulled wine, thinking that this situation would be much more easily borne if Kat would exercise some self-restraint and stop her bloody giggling. Then again, he supposed it did behoove him to have a wife who happened to charm everyone so much; perhaps one of these days he could use her as leverage for a promotion from lieutenant colonel to full colonel…he might even be able to make brigadier general by the time this damned rebellion was quashed…his son would be extremely well provided-for if he was a general, and he could make that very clear to Cornwallis…

"You know, Mrs. Tavington, the custom surrounding mistletoe comes from the court of Henry VIII," continued Rawdon. _Why_ on earth were they still discussing that bloody weed?

"Really," Kat said politely. "How did it start?"

"Well, His Royal Majesty was a bit of a philanderer, as you may have heard, and after the death of his third wife Jane Seymour, he wished to choose a new bride from among his court. His advisors organized a sort of contest, in which each eligible young lady was permitted to kiss the king under the mistletoe. His Majesty was so charmed with Anne of Cleves that he made her his queen shortly thereafter. Of course, he divorced her not long into the marriage, leaving her a ruined woman, but we also gained an enchanting holiday tradition! So I think the world came out ahead in the end, don't you?" Obviously very satisfied with himself, Rawdon capped off his speech by gulping down an entire goblet of mulled wine.

"Horse shit," muttered Tavington under his breath. Kat glanced sideways at him, her expression both astonished and amused, but unfortunately for him, Rawdon had heard him as well.

"Well, of course it is, Reginald! Though it's not exactly good manners to say so," Rawdon chuckled. "But you all believed me, didn't you?"

"Jolly good, Rawdon!" roared Cornwallis, clapping him on the back. "You had us all there!"

"I vas _total überrascht_," said the Baron.

Next to him, the Bohemian shook his head. "I just don't know," he said in his flat voice.

"Capital!" exclaimed Cornwallis. "Shall we eat?"

Dinner progressed without much ado, though Tavington thought it quite likely that he would strike the next person who mentioned mistletoe. And as it happened, that person emerged halfway through dessert.

"Good evening, Lawrence," said Rutledge cheerfully, waving as that lieutenant appeared in the doorway.

"Mistletoe," Lawrence replied dully, looking up sadly as he glided into the room.

Tavington closed his eyes and took a deep breath, followed by a long sip of wine. "You put it there, Lieutenant," he growled.

"Yes, sir, I did," Lawrence sighed, "but that was…before."

Tavington did not care to know what event had occurred in Lawrence's life to make him sound less than enthused about mistletoe, and fortunately, the entrance of Bligh and that blasted Milner gave him an excuse not to follow up on the matter.

"Lieutenants!" boomed Cornwallis. "It is a pleasure to have you with us. Speaking of which, I believe Colonel Tavington has something he would like to ask you!" He tipped a huge wink in the direction of Tavington, who choked on his wine. Surely the General didn't intend him to invite the trio of fops to Christmas dinner right this moment? In front of everyone?

But it seemed that that was, in fact, precisely what the General intended, and all other conversation had ceased. Even Rawdon had temporarily desisted from staring at Kat's chest to watch the scene play out. Nothing for it, then. Tavington nodded curtly, drained his glass, and said, "Gentlemen. It is my honor to extend to each of you an invitation to join us for our Christmas celebration. We would be—" he paused to loosen his collar—"delighted if you could join our party."

Bligh looked uncomfortable and Milner confused, both as expected. But Lawrence's reaction was distinctly underwhelming. While the other two mumbled their assent and thanks, Lawrence—hitherto the clear spokesman and leader of the group—merely gazed moodily off into the distance and said listlessly, "Thank you, Colonel. We should be thrilled."

"I say, Lawrence, you don't precisely _seem_ thrilled!" chuckled Rutledge. "Where has all of that Christmas cheer disappeared to?"

"I suppose I'm just…" Lawrence sighed heavily. "…not feeling the holiday spirit anymore."

"Well, Lieutenant, we can't very well have that, now, can we?" Cornwallis pushed back his chair and stood up decisively, causing everyone at the table to follow suit. "Oh, sit down, all of you!" he said irritably, "I'm talking to Lawrence." They all sat back down obediently, and the General turned back to Lawrence. "Lieutenant Lawrence—and you too, Bligh—I am charging you with a vital task, one that will ensure that we all pass the holiday season in comfort. Lieutenants, you must procure for us—" he paused dramatically—"a Christmas tree."

For the second time in five minutes, Tavington choked on his wine. This time, he set into a fit of coughing.

"Are you okay?" asked Kat loudly. Ignoring his feeble nod, she stood up and began whacking him repeatedly on the back. This had the effect of focusing the attention of everyone in the room on him.

"I say, Tavington, are you quite well?" Cornwallis peered down the table at him.

Tavington nodded, still coughing, and glared at Kat, who immediately stopped hitting him and sat back down. "I beg your pardon, Milord," he wheezed.

The General frowned and turned back toward the lieutenants. "As I was saying, Lieutenants, I wish you to obtain a Christmas tree."

"Zis is a _wunderbar_ idea!" The Baron, at least, was enthused. "I remember myself, ven I vas young in Prussia, ve had zis tree every year for Christmases! Ve had a song about it—perhaps you know zis song?" he asked, turning to address the Bohemian as he began to sing. "_O Tannenbaum__, __o Tannenbaum__, Wie treu sind deine Blätter! Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit, Nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit…_" He looked expectantly at his companion.

But the Bohemian simply stared at the Baron. "I just haff no idea vat you are talking about."

Kat frowned at the overwhelming negativity of the Bohemian's statement. "Well, I think it's a great idea, General," she said. "It's not really Christmas without a tree!"

Tavington wondered, not for the first time, what sort of upbringing she'd had—this tree obsession must be another one of her family's quirks, which he strongly suspected were related to their Irish heritage—but Cornwallis merely beamed at her. "Capital! It's settled, then. Lieutenants, you are to set out tomorrow morning, and I don't want to see you back at Applebottom unless you've got a nice tree with you!"

Rutledge clapped his hands together. "Marvelous—just the thing to cheer you up, Lawrence!"

Tavington was pleased to note that Bligh looked less than thrilled at the prospect of finding a fir tree in the chilly weather and then dragging it back to Applebottom. This sort of thing would usually be right up Lawrence's alley, though; it was somewhat shocking that he wasn't more enthused.

"Sorry, General, but what about me?" Milner still looked confused.

"Whatever do you mean, Ensign?" boomed Cornwallis.

"Sorry, but am I meant to go with them?" Interestingly, Bligh looked as if he'd like to hit Milner upside the head, which corresponded exactly to Tavington's own feelings at present. He did wonder, though, what bad blood was between Bligh and Milner.

"No, Ensign, you are to stay here!" said the General irritably. "You will find some other form of employment. I don't want every junior officer in the colonies out fetching holiday decorations."

"You can help me make bake Christmas cookies!" said Kat brightly, smiling at Milner. This time, Tavington gave into the temptation to roll his eyes: humoring Milner was going a step too far.

"Cheers, thanks," said Milner. "Cheers."

"Right, that's settled, then." Cornwallis looked around at his guests. "Shall we move into the music room for a bit of after-dinner entertainment? Miss Mithuna informed me earlier that she might be singing for us this evening."

"Saints preserve us," muttered Tavington. Kat nudged him sharply in the ribs, but gave him a quick smile.

"Shall we promenade into the next room, then, Mrs. Tavington?" drawled Rawdon, rising from the table and offering her his arm.

"Sure," she replied, looking apologetically at Tavington.

"My dear madam, I really cannot get over the quality of lace on your garment!" exclaimed Rawdon, his eyes focused once more well below Kat's face. "If I could just have a closer look…"

"Sir," interrupted Tavington loudly, "the woman whose dress your Lordship is currently admiring happens to be my wife."

"But she is Mrs. Tavington!" said Rawdon, with an air of confusion. "Aren't you?" He peered expectantly at Kat.

"Yes, she is, and I am Colonel William Tavington, your Lordship," replied Tavington through clenched teeth.

"Oh, my mistake," said Rawdon airily. "I do apologize, my dear fellow! I thought you were the butler."

"No, your Lordship." Tavington refrained from mentioning the fact that they had had this very same conversation on the occasion of their last meeting.

Rawdon chuckled. "Then, Colonel, may I have the honor of escorting your lady into the music room?"

"Unfortunately, your Lordship, my wife is feeling unwell and wishes to retire," snapped Tavington, seizing Kat's arm. She looked confused for a moment, but nodded after she caught Tavington's eye.

"Yes, I have a terrible…headache," she said, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Pardon us, Lord Rawdon."

"Farewell, my fair lady," said Rawdon, bowing dramatically. "My inspection of your lace will have to wait for another occasion."

"Good evening," Tavington growled, steering Kat out of the dining room.

As they crossed the foyer and walked toward the staircase, Kat removed her arm from his. "You were incredibly impolite, you know," she said.

"How so?" demanded Tavington. He'd had quite enough from his companions; he expected his wife, at least, to be sympathetic to his plight and impressed that he'd not started yelling at anyone mid-meal.

"You didn't say goodnight to anyone!" she said, glaring at him as they ascended the stairs. "Poor Lawrence was clearly upset, and you were unsympathetic. And you were downright rude to Lord Rawdon."

"I beg your pardon, madam, but I do not generally enjoy the company of those lechers who think it appropriate to address themselves to my wife's cleavage!" he snapped.

"Okay, so he's a little sleazy," she admitted. "But he's not a bad person."

They had just reached the top of the staircase, and Tavington whirled around to retort, but she pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him. "William," she said, her voice soft. "Just let it go, okay? I understand why Lord Rawdon frustrates you, I know Lawrence drives you crazy sometimes—but it's Christmas. Try to enjoy it."

Easy enough for her to say—but Tavington bit back his rejoinder and nodded reluctantly. "Thanks," she said, taking his hand and linking her fingers through his as they walked down the hallway toward their room. When they reached the door, however, he stopped, and she turned to face him.

"I have never been one to be infected with 'holiday spirit'," he said stiffly.

"Really? I couldn't tell." Kat was laughing at him.

"I merely wished to inform you not to expect me to transform into Lawrence overnight."

"Please don't," she said, smiling and reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. "I love you just the way you are. Though if you call me 'madam' again I might rethink it. Hey, look!" He followed her gaze, and saw—

"Mistletoe!" she cried, giggling madly, dancing away from his grasp.

Tavington did not see fit to allow her to speak again for some time.

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As he set out from Applebottom the next morning, Lawrence tailing him moodily, Bligh did not feel at all in good spirits, let alone Christmas spirits. He had no desire to go tramping around in the woods with a moping Lawrence and his horse, particularly when it looked like snow. Christmas and snow were not meant to go together, in Bligh's opinion; he had become accustomed to warmer temperatures at the holidays, and this unseasonable chill was distinctly displeasing to him. And Lawrence's glumness was contagious; even Daniel seemed somehow morose, despite the cheerful brightness of his red bonnet.

The sky darkened gradually with the promise of impending snow as the morning wore on, and the two lieutenants marched on without conversation. The only sounds to break the silence of the wood were the horse's footsteps, thudding heavily on the frozen dirt path, and the heavy sighs that Lawrence heaved every few minutes. And, after several hours spent wandering deeper and deeper into the wood that bordered the western edge of Applebottom with nothing to break the monotony but Lawrence's incessant exhaling, Bligh was ready to strangle his companion.

"Stop sighing, would you, mate!" Bligh exclaimed irritably. "I'll go mad if you carry on like that!"

"It wasn't me, it was Daniel!" Lawrence said, his voice rising defensively. "I wish you wouldn't be so hostile all the time!"

"I wasn't being hostile, I just asked you to stop sighing!"

"Well, this is a difficult time for me! I could use some support, you know!"

"Why?" Now Bligh was honestly baffled.

Lawrence shot him a resentful look. "I already _told_ you, I'm worried about Androclus! It's very difficult to be upbeat when one's closest friend, formerly a brilliant scholar, is neglecting his studies in favor of some young buck with no sense of propriety!"

"Whoa," said Bligh. "Are you actually upset because your friend is neglecting his studies, or because you're afraid this new fellow has replaced you?"

Bligh seemed to have hit the nail on the head. Lawrence sank down on a nearby tree stump and buried his head in his hands. "We spent all our time together at school!" he said miserably. "Now he's forgotten all about me."

Bligh crouched down next to his companion, his chin resting in his gargantuan hand, thinking. He wasn't quite sure how he had assumed the role of counselor to Lawrence, but there was nothing for it: if they were to find a tree and get back to Applebottom before the New Year, he would need to help Lawrence now. "Listen, Lawrence," he said, trying to keep his tone sincere. "I know it's hard to accept, but sometimes the friendships you have when you're young don't last. Some of the people you think will always be in your life end up going in a different direction. People change, mate." He clapped Lawrence on the back and stood up.

"Well, _that_ was anything but cheerful," sniffed Lawrence, fingering the tassels on his scarf.

"Sorry," said Bligh surlily. "I was _trying_ to help."

"Yes, well, don't bother," said Lawrence haughtily, tossing the end of the scarf over his shoulder as he stood up. "I shall manage just fine on my own."

"Right," growled Bligh. "Let's find this bloody tree, then, shall we?"

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Having just spent a full day free of the nuisance of Lawrence and Bligh, Colonel Tavington was feeling quite content. Dinner had been—if not pleasant, then at least tolerable: Rawdon could not feign ignorance as to Tavington's identity two nights in a row, and Tavington had been assertive in positioning himself between his wife and his superior at the table. And not once had anyone mentioned the mistletoe! All in all, he'd had a rather pleasant evening.

At least, that is, until he and Kat retired to their bedroom after dinner. Tavington sat in bed, reviewing a pile of dispatches he had received that morning. Kat was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair with the comb he had given her. Watching her, Tavington felt quite proud at his gift-giving prowess, as well as at the attractiveness of his wife. She would bear him handsome children, that was certain.

"Don't you think it's odd that Bligh and Lawrence aren't back yet?" she said, interrupting his reverie about their unborn child.

He felt a surge of annoyance at the mention of his lieutenants. "Being well acquainted with the pair of them, I should say it was more unusual if they finished the task in a reasonable amount of time."

"_William_," she said, laying the comb down and looking at him reproachfully. "I'm serious. The last time they were gone this long, it turned out they had gotten kidnapped."

"Which speaks to their incompetence, don't you agree?" Tavington kept his tone light, but Kat just frowned.

"If they're not back by tomorrow evening, will you send someone to go find them? Please?" She stood up and walked over to the bed, perching on the edge next to where he sat.

He nodded reluctantly. "They're trained soldiers, you know. They can protect themselves."

"I thought your argument was that they were incompetent!"

"Never mind," he said gruffly. "I shall send someone out tomorrow night if they haven't returned before then."

"Thank you," she said, leaning over and kissing him lightly. She stood up and walked over to the wardrobe as Tavington began to scan the dispatches in earnest.

After several moments, he began to observe two patterns. First, there were several reports of increased rebel activity to the northwest, near the North Carolina border, close to a town called Cowpens. This was of obvious interest, and Tavington intended to explore it further at a later juncture. But what captured his immediate attention was—

"_Jefferson_," he snarled, turning the page to yet another report of a similar nature.

"What did you say?" Kat, now clad in her nightgown, climbed into bed next to him.

"Your hero, Thomas Jefferson, who styles himself 'Governor of Virginia'." Tavington harrumphed.

"I never said he was my hero!" Kat said, but Tavington thought she sounded suspiciously intrigued nonetheless. "What is he doing?"

"Aside from continuing to commit high treason against His Royal Majesty King George?" Tavington said drily. "He's moved the state capital from Williamsburg to Richmond."

"What does that mean?"

"Richmond is more centrally located, making it easier for the rebel government to organize its troops." Brow furrowed, he glanced through a few more of the pages as Kat turned her attention to a book. "That man must be stopped."

He had said it to himself, but Kat perked up. "Thomas Jefferson, you mean."

"Yes, Jefferson," Tavington replied acidly, setting the dispatches on the bedside table. "You seem to take a great interest in that gentleman."

Kat tossed her book onto the floor and turned toward him. "I don't want to fight about this again," she said wearily.

"I am not fighting," he said, his voice edged with annoyance. "I was merely observing that your degree of attention to the conversation increases whenever Jefferson's name is mentioned."

"Well, I think he's an inspiring figure," she said, propping her head up on an elbow and gazing down at him.

"What is inspiring about a misguided ideologue who cannot even be bothered to take up arms for the cause for which he purports to live?" He was honestly curious. His wife was an intelligent and opinionated woman, and he had never understood her fascination with the rebel cause.

"Not everyone's a soldier," she said. "And there are other ways to fight. The pen is mightier…"

He looked at her blankly. "Mightier than what?"

"Than the sword!" she said. "Don't tell me you've never heard that saying."

He shook his head. "I have not."

"I wonder when that was invented?" she muttered, blushing when she noticed that he was gaping at her. "Never mind. My point is that words—declarations, speeches, whatever—motivate people to fight. And Thomas Jefferson happens to be very good with words."

"Ah, yes, the Declaration of Independence, for which you have expressed admiration in the past." Tavington felt an intense repulsion at the idea that his wife held some skewed idealistic vision of the rebels, but he held his emotions in check.

"Have you read it?" she asked quietly.

"No," he said. He hadn't needed to; he had no interest in their supposed grievances, particularly when they were declaimed in such an inflammatory manner.

Kat sighed and flopped down on her back, eyes closed. "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," she said. "Isn't that all anyone really wants?"

"I suppose so," said Tavington warily.

She sighed, her eyes still closed. "The man's a genius."

He thought this was a bit of a stretch for a seven-word phrase, no matter how captivating. He was about to say so, but then he noticed she was looking at him, and the sincerity of her sudden smile caught him off-guard. "It's nice to be able to talk about this without fighting," she said. "I'm glad we're having this heart-to-heart."

Tavington could only nod, mystified once more by her odd phrasing. He felt, however, that it was time for a change of subject; he could only suffer through so much of her waxing poetic on the merits of that traitor Jefferson.

Suddenly, Kat burst into a peal of laughter. Still on her back, she pointed up at the ceiling. "Look," she said. Tavington looked up and saw, suspended above their bed—

"_Mistletoe_," he growled. "I shall have Lawrence's ascot for this the moment he returns."

"Well, there's only one thing to do about it right now," she said reasonably, sidling toward him.

"Not send out a search party after Lawrence and Bligh?" he replied hopefully.

"_No_," she said. "You promised."

"Damn," he muttered. She laughed, and he took the opportunity to position himself over her, silencing her with a deep kiss.

"That was more what I had in mind," she whispered throatily. "Maybe the mistletoe wasn't such a bad idea after all."

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It had all begun with the bloody mistletoe. If Lawrence hadn't insisted on putting it everywhere, on being so damned _festive_, they would never have been assigned this mission. At least, that was how it seemed to Bligh, who was less than pleased with his ever-temperamental companion as they continued to tramp through the woods toward a seemingly non-existent "perfect" Christmas tree. Lawrence had already rejected any number of small-ish fir trees for no reason that Bligh could discern.

"What about that one?" he said, pointing an immense hand toward a reasonably sized tree just off the path.

"_No!_" Lawrence snapped, glaring at him.

"Why not?" said Bligh churlishly, glaring back.

Lawrence sighed impatiently. "It's not the perfect Christmas tree! It's lopsided, and just look at that disgraceful bare patch there in the back!"

Bligh felt his blood boil. "Look, mate. It's getting dark. We'd best find a tree and get back."

Lawrence bristled, obviously planning to retort, but their attention was both caught by something unrelated. "Look!" said Lawrence, his entire attitude suddenly changed. "Snow!"

It was as if the snow had decided that, since it had been delayed, it would all fall at once. In no time at all, they were surrounded by an avalanche of thick white flakes. Bligh shook himself out of his reverie and addressed his companion once more. "Listen, we'd better be turning back soon."

"Let's just go a bit further," urged Lawrence. "Look, the wood gets denser just up there. I'm certain we'll be able to find something in that thicket! And anyway, you heard the General. We're not to return to Applebottom without a tree!"

Bligh cast a longing glance toward the tree he had suggested, then heaved a great sigh and followed Lawrence, who was already leading Daniel forward into the wood. After all, Lawrence had the axe, and there wasn't much Bligh could do to obtain a tree without it.

An hour later, the wood had still not yielded a tree to Lawrence's standards, and dusk was falling in earnest. Lawrence wrung his hands. "Oh, dear, whatever shall we do? We haven't found a tree yet, and we haven't any place to camp."

Bligh felt that he should like to box Lawrence's ears. "Well, we were supposed to find a tree a bit closer to Applebottom," he growled.

"It isn't _my_ fault that all the trees are substandard!" If nothing else, Lawrence at least seemed to be distracted from his moodiness by their predicament. "Oh, _dear_!"

"Calm down," said Bligh.

"How can you say that?!" cried Lawrence, now panicking fully. "We haven't any place to spend the night! We shall freeze to death!"

"We _won't_," said Bligh, annoyed at Lawrence's theatrics. "You set about lighting a fire in that clearing over there, and I'll make a shelter."

Lawrence seemed to be distracted by the immediacy of their plight, and, after tethering Daniel to a thick-trunked fir tree, he ran about fetching firewood without any complaint. Bligh, meanwhile, set to task on their shelter. His first plan had been to build an igloo, but after some minutes of attempting to shape the ever thickening snow into a dome large enough to fit himself and Lawrence, he decided that igloos were best left to lands where there was enough ice to hold them up properly. In the end, he managed to create a sort of three-sided hut out of sticks firmly planted in the snow, using the trunks of two closely rooted trees as a base. Fortunately, the thickness of the branches above the ground had kept it free of snow, so Bligh had a clear floor on which to build.

By the time he was done, Lawrence had a roaring fire going several feet away, emanating heat in the direction of the shelter. But Bligh wasn't quite satisfied; the wind would still come in through the cracks between the branches. "Have you got any idea what we can use to cover the shelter, eh?"

"I've got just the thing!" said Lawrence. He opened Daniel's saddlebag and pulled out two thick wool blankets. Bligh could only gape at him.

"You brought blankets?"

"Of course I did," Lawrence said superciliously. "In case Daniel got cold." He handed one to Bligh and draped the other over the horse.

Bligh shook his head in amazement and put the blanket over the makeshift hut, then crawled into it. It was actually reasonably warm with the fire blazing, and it kept the snow out. Bligh was quite pleased with their efforts, though he thought ruefully of the dinner they were missing at Applebottom.

A moment later, Lawrence crawled into the shelter next to him and set a large sack down between them. Bligh eyed it curiously. "What's that, eh?"

"I brought some mincemeat pies, in case we wanted an afternoon snack," said Lawrence, pulling one out and handing it to Bligh.

"Thanks, mate!" said Bligh, beginning to eat happily. He pulled out the flask at his waist and uncorked it, taking a long swig. "Whisky?"

"I'd prefer milk-punch, but I don't suppose you have that," said Lawrence, accepting the flask.

They ate in silence for some time, watching the snow fall around them, the sound of their chewing punctuated by the crackling of the fire. When he was done with his pie, Bligh sighed contentedly and took a long drink of whisky, his head buzzing pleasantly. He supposed he owed Lawrence an apology for upsetting him earlier, but Lawrence began speaking first.

"I've been thinking about what you said earlier," he said, staring into the fire. "About Androclus, and people changing. And I suppose you're right." He sighed heavily, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them.

"Listen, Lawrence," Bligh began, not quite sure what to say. "I didn't mean to say you should give up on Androclus. Maybe he has changed, but so have you. I just meant that you shouldn't expect all of your relations with everyone to stay the same."

"I suppose not," said Lawrence, still looking rather gloomy.

Bligh continued, determined to break Lawrence from his funk. "Sometimes you have to let people go, but it isn't as though they're erased from your life. And even if you and Androclus aren't friends the way you were before, you still helped make each other into the people you are now. Everyone affects your life in some way. And you should appreciate the time you have with all of the people you care about, even when it hasn't turned out quite the way you expected." He took another swig from his flask and turned to look at Lawrence.

To his surprise, his companion's eyes were bright with tears. To his even greater surprise, Lawrence then threw his arms around Bligh. "That was the most beautiful thing you've ever said," he choked.

Bligh patted him stiffly on the back. "That's all right," he said awkwardly. Lawrence detached himself from Bligh, sniffling, and dabbed at his eyes with the edge of his scarf. Bligh took the opportunity to have another drink.

"You know, I didn't know anyone when I joined the Dragoons," Lawrence continued, still rather teary. "You're the best friend I could have hoped for."

"Thanks," said Bligh. He still felt quite uncomfortable, but as they sat in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts, Bligh realized something. As much as Lawrence annoyed him at times, and even though virtually every scrape they got into was Lawrence's fault—he had, oddly enough, become Bligh's best friend. And, even more strangely, there was no other way Bligh would prefer to spend the holidays than with Lawrence and his overwhelming zeal for Christmas, though this was hard to remember at times. "Hey, Lawrence?"

"Yes?" Lawrence said, looking expectantly at him.

"You too," said Bligh gruffly.

Lawrence breathed in very deeply and began to dab at his eyes again. To cover the awkwardness of the moment, Bligh handed him the flask. "Thank you," said Lawrence, his voice shaky. There was a silence as Lawrence sipped at the whisky and got his emotions back under control. "I say," he said after a long moment. "The Baron told me the most _delightful_ joke the other day. Have you heard the one about the Hessian prince, the seaman, and the shuttlecock?"

Bligh shook his head, grabbing the flask back from Lawrence. He had forgotten what the side effect of cheering Lawrence up would be, and if he was in for an evening of awful jokes, he would need all the alcohol he could get.

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I spent the next afternoon in the kitchen with Rutledge, making decorations to hang on our presumptive tree. In the absence of the huge box of assorted ornaments that my parents always dragged out from the basement every December, I figured popcorn balls were better than nothing. Also, it gave me something to do so I wasn't sitting and brooding all day. I'd never spent Christmas away from my family, and I missed them, now more than ever.

The only thing keeping me sane was William. Every time I caught him under the mistletoe, every time he smiled at me or said something surprisingly sweet, I fell more in love with him. Our talk the night before had made me appreciate him all the more; even though he didn't understand my adoration of Thomas Jefferson, and even though he disagreed with me completely, he still listened to me, and that meant a lot.

As I emptied the third huge pot full of freshly popped corn kernels into the bowl of sticky glue-like adhesive we'd concocted, I wondered for the millionth time why he'd never said "I love you" back to me. I had enough self-assurance to accept that he wouldn't be as affectionate as he was if he didn't love me, and I knew that he was anything but demonstrative in his personal relationships. But I still wished he'd just _say_ it, so I wouldn't have to be wondering all the time…

"This was a delightful idea, Mrs. Tavington!" drawled Rutledge, setting another freshly rolled ball of popcorn to dry next to the dozen we'd already made. "Normally, I simply deck my pear tree with a string of ribbon, but I think these balls would make a fine addition to any tree!"

"Thanks," I said, trying to imagine Christmas with a pear tree instead of a pine. The visual made me smile.

"You know, I'm quite concerned that Lieutenants Lawrence and Bligh haven't returned," Rutledge said. "Aren't you?"

It took me a minute to realize he was talking to me. "What? Oh—yes, I am. I'm sure they'll be back soon, though." I was thinking about William again.

Rutledge frowned. "I do hope so."

We both rolled in silence for a few minutes, and soon we were out of popcorn.

"That's enough, don't you think?" I asked, dunking my hands into a bucket of clean water and then wiping them on a towel.

Rutledge surveyed our work. "I should think so, unless the tree is of excessive proportions."

I picked up my rings from where I'd set them down, sliding the ring from Paris back onto my right hand thoughtlessly. I admired my wedding band as I put it back onto my left ring finger, twisting it slightly so the diamond sparkled.

"That's a lovely ring, Mrs. Tavington," said Rutledge, watching me.

"Thank you," I said, smiling at him. "Colonel Tavington gave it to me when we were married."

"I beg your pardon, I meant the ring on your right hand. It's very unusual," he said. "Though of course your wedding band is beautiful as well."

"Oh," I said, confused. I hadn't really looked at Paris's ring in ages. It was a thin silver band with a small heart-shaped sapphire in the center—to match my eyes, Paris had said when he gave it to me. I realized with a shock that I hadn't thought about Paris in weeks.

"Wherever did you get it?" Rutledge pressed, watching me closely. I knew I was acting rather oddly, so I tried to get myself under control.

"It was a gift," I said, smiling at him. "I'm sorry, Edward, but I've really got to get upstairs and change for dinner. Thank you for your help."

He bowed. "It was my pleasure. Until dinner."

As I left the kitchen, I twisted Paris's ring on my finger. Rutledge had just given me an idea: I knew what I was going to give William for Christmas.

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"Bligh! _Bligh!_ Wake up! Come see what I've found!" Lawrence's voice, shrill with excitement, broke both the silence of nature and Bligh's slumber.

Bligh groaned and stretched. Aside from a slightly stiff back, he didn't feel at all the worse for spending the night on the ground during a snowstorm. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, peering outside. The fire was still burning, and he couldn't see Lawrence from where he sat. He crawled out of the makeshift shelter and stood up.

Lawrence was standing next to Daniel, a huge smile spread across his face. "_Look!_" he exclaimed, pointing.

All Bligh saw was Daniel, the absurd red bonnet still covering his ears. "What about him?"

"No, not _Daniel_—look at the _tree!_"

Bligh looked. The tree to which the horse's reins were tied was a fir, and judging from the look on Lawrence's face, they had finally found—

"The perfect Christmas tree!" Lawrence chirped, bouncing on the balls of his feet and clapping his hands with excitement. "It's tall, full-bristled, and it has a hard, long shaft—" he knocked on the trunk of the tree to demonstrate— "See? It's _perfect!_"

"About time," muttered Bligh.

Fortunately, Lawrence didn't hear him, as he was now circumnavigating the tree, presumably to ensure that there were no offensively bare patches. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Lovely," Bligh agreed. "Let's get to it, shall we? We'll have a long walk home."

Lawrence obediently unsheathed his axe, and they set to work, Daniel watching balefully.

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Tavington returned to Applebottom from the camp late afternoon, rather earlier than he would usually have come home. The snow was still falling, so thick on the ground now that his horse had difficulty picking its way through some of the higher drifts. Travel would be difficult for the next few days, meaning that in all likelihood, he would be trapped in the house until the Christmas festivities were better. At least he had Kat to keep him sane; if this had happened last year, it would have been utterly unbearable.

As he entered into the house after leaving his horse with a stable boy, Tavington brushed the snow off his coat and looked around. He supposed that if Bligh and Lawrence had returned, there would be some exponential increase in the overall holiday decoration of the house. As that did not yet seem to be the case, his guess was that the fops were still missing.

"Ah, Tavington," chortled Cornwallis, wandering out of the parlor. "Good to see you!"

"Milord," said Tavington, giving him a curt nod. He was holding a glass that Tavington strongly suspected had previously been full of eggnog.

Sure enough, the General quickly confirmed this. "Come have some eggnog, my dear fellow! And where is your charming wife?"

"I haven't any idea, Milord, having just stepped inside." Tavington followed Cornwallis into the parlor, nodding to the Baron von Pilsner and the Bohemian, who were also sipping eggnog.

"Well, where have you been?" asked the General, ladling a generous amount of eggnog into a glass and handing it to him.

"At the camp, Milord," Tavington said incredulously. He took a sip of eggnog; it was quite strong, but not strong enough to justify the General's apparent oversight of the fact that he had a war to oversee.

"It's Christmas, Colonel!" chuckled Cornwallis. "Do relax, my dear fellow!"

"Yes, Milord," replied Tavington dutifully, settling onto a sofa.

To his surprise, Kat appeared in the parlor not long thereafter. "Mrs. Tavington!" Cornwallis boomed, standing. "Allow me to get you some eggnog."

"Thank you, that would be lovely," she said, crossing the room to join Tavington on the sofa. "Hi," she said, kissing him on the cheek.

"Good evening," he said, rather stiffly. This excess of public displays of affection would have to cease; he had made allowances for her long enough. He made a mental note to speak to her about it later.

The General chuckled as he handed Kat her eggnog. "I do believe you're embarrassing your husband, Mrs. Tavington!"

Just then, Lord Rawdon strode into the parlor, heading straight for the eggnog. "I trust you won't mind if I help myself, Milord?" Cornwallis merely chuckled, and Rawdon ladled out a glass, gulped it down in one go, and then refilled it, settling into a chair next to the table. "Delectable stuff," he said grandly. "And, talking of favorable adjectives—your gown is splendid, Mrs. Tavington! Quite festive!"

"Thanks," she said, blushing. Tavington looked over at her. The red gown did suit her well, but he would have preferred Rawdon's admiration to be slightly less virulent.

"Zis is a pretty dress, yes," said the Baron. "You must not though wear zis tomorrow."

Kat looked perplexed. "Why not?"

The Baron shook his head, obviously much agitated at her ignorance. "Ze solstice! You must never red on ze solstice wear!"

It took Tavington a moment to decode the Baron's odd phrasing. He glanced over at Kat, who had gone suddenly pale. "Oh, is it the solstice tomorrow?" she said faintly.

"_Ja klar!_" The Baron shook his fist at her to emphasize his point. Unfortunately, this happened to be the fist holding the glass of eggnog, so he and the Bohemian were now splattered with eggnog.

In the uproar that followed as everyone rushed around trying to find a handkerchief and water, Tavington watched Kat's reaction. She was still pale, staring into the distance. Was she having some sort of fit? That couldn't be healthy, either for her or for the child. "Are you quite all right?" he asked, somewhat concerned.

She started and looked over at him. "I'm fine," she said. "I just—it surprised me that the solstice is tomorrow, that's all. I always look for the longest day of the year and then miss it, you know?"

"Kat," he said, now very concerned. "It is now December. Tomorrow is the winter solstice. It will be the _shortest_ day of the year."

"No, I know, I was just having a Daisy Buchanan moment…"

"Who?" Tavington frowned at her. "Are you quite certain you're all right?"

"Yes," she said, then more emphatically, "_yes_. Never better, actually." She grinned at him and leaned in to kiss him.

This time, Tavington allowed her display of affection without consideration of their audience. The woman was having some sort of delusion, and she obviously needed whatever stability he could provide. He also had no objection to asserting his ownership of Kat when Rawdon was nearby.

Gradually, Tavington became conscious of faint singing. It was growing progressively louder, and soon everyone in the room had stopped to listen. _"Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Stephen! When the snow lay roundabout, deep and crisp and even! Brightly da da da da dummm_—I don't know the rest of the words, do you, Bligh?" Then came the sound of the front door opening, followed by a resounding _thud_.

A moment later Lawrence appeared in the doorway of the parlor, Bligh towering behind him. Both lieutenants were covered in large white snowflakes; Bligh's hair appeared to be frozen in place, and Lawrence's cheeks were bright pink. But he looked positively thrilled as he announced, "We're back, and we have the tree! Let the festivities begin!"

Tavington didn't know whether to be repulsed by Lawrence's cheeriness or pleased that he wouldn't have to go out looking for the twiddlepoops now. This ambivalence, however, was very quickly settled when Lawrence pointed up at the mistletoe above his head. "Mistletoe!" he announced, sending Bligh skittering away from him quite rapidly.

The room erupted into laughter, and Tavington sighed deeply. No escaping it now: Christmas was upon him.

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Christmas Eve dawned a soft grey, the snow threatening to fall once more after a day's respite. Cornwallis had relieved Bligh and Lawrence of all of their duties for the next several days, giving Lawrence ample time to decorate Applebottom from floor to ceiling—and giving Bligh no excuse not to help him. In addition to the holly and mistletoe, he had put bells on all of the doors on the main floor, braided red and green ribbon into the manes of all of the horses in the stables, set candles burning in all of the windows (Bligh had already had to put out three minor fires, leaving him with a singed waistcoat and a good deal of resentment), and, with the help of Rutledge, dyed all of the curtains in the dining room red and green.

And then there was the matter of the tree. Bligh had spent a full hour moving the tree back and forth across the foyer while Lawrence decided what the best place for it would be. Then they had decked it with ribbon and the popcorn balls that Mrs. Tavington and Rutledge had made—but this still wasn't enough for Lawrence, so they had ended up, at the Baron's suggestion, putting candles on the tree as well. Bligh was convinced that this could only end in fiery disaster, but the Baron both outranked and outshouted him.

"Zis is _extreme wichtig!_" he blustered. "Zis cannot be a Christmas tree wizout ze candlelight!"

"But—" began Bligh.

"You're just trying to stop us from enjoying Christmas properly!" complained Lawrence, tossing his head. "Günther's right, the tree will look simply _precious_ with candles on!"

It just wasn't worth arguing with Lawrence where Christmas was concerned, and in the end, Bligh gave up and acquiesced to his request—though he did set a private with the task of monitoring the tree when it was lit. All in all, he was rather relieved when Christmas Eve dinner rolled around and the decoration process was behind them.

As he entered the dining room behind Lawrence and Milner, Bligh had to admit that it did look a treat. The curtains leant a festive air to the room—though with the holly, mistletoe, and constantly ringing bells as the servants brought the food in from the kitchen, the effect was slightly overwhelming.

"Merry Christmas!" boomed Cornwallis, raising his glass in their direction.

"Merry Christmas," they echoed, though Bligh couldn't help but notice that Milner sounded slightly less than chipper.

As they took their seats at the table, Bligh looked around at everyone, all arrayed in their Christmas finery. The General was wearing his favorite cherry-patterned waistcoat, laughing uproariously with Lord Rawdon, who wore a supercilious expression and a red cravat. On the General's left sat Günther, gesticulating animatedly toward the Bohemian, who looked not remotely impressed. At the far end of the table sat the Colonel and Mrs. Tavington; the Colonel was drinking his wine quickly, his expression less than pleased, but Mrs. Tavington obviously had eyes only for her husband. Next to them, Rutledge, sporting a holly-patterned waistcoat for the occasion, was deep in conversation with Mithuna, who seemed to have fashioned a crown of mistletoe for herself. Bligh looked to his right and saw Lawrence staring longingly at Mithuna. He laughed to himself; no matter how much Lawrence protested, he obviously had feelings for her.

This left Milner and himself. Normally, Milner would be deep in conversation with Lawrence about his long naval family, but tonight he seemed oddly reticent. _'It's Christmas, Bligh,'_ thought Bligh to himself, and took a deep breath. "What's up, mate?"

"Sorry?" Milner turned to look at him.

"What's on your mind?"

"Well, I'm being reassigned," Milner said. "I've just gotten my orders."

Now Lawrence jumped into the conversation. "Where to?"

"That's just it," said Milner, taking a sip of his wine. "I don't know yet."

"How can you have been reassigned without knowing where to?" Bligh demanded.

Milner didn't meet his gaze. "They need help with…erm…John Paul Jones."

Bligh looked at him skeptically, but Lawrence was all astonishment. "When are you leaving, Sir Henry?"

"At the New Year," said Milner.

Lawrence looked momentarily depressed, but he perked up quickly. "Well, we shall enjoy each other's company to the fullest until then!" He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention!" Gradually, the conversation ceased, and everyone looked at him. "I propose a toast," Lawrence said grandly. "A toast, to everyone in this room, to good times spent with good friends. We may have been an unlikely group to begin with, but we are family now. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," chorused everyone around the table, raising their glasses.

Cornwallis was dabbing his eyes. "That was beautiful, Lieutenant!" he said. "Now—let us eat!"

Bligh set into the food ravenously. Somewhat embarrassingly, he finished the turkey on the platter in front of him and had to ask Lawrence to pass him some from the other end of the table. The conversation was good, the wine excellent, and Bligh was feeling rather sleepy by the time the meal was over and Cornwallis recommended that they adjourn to the music room.

To Bligh's surprise, Lawrence grabbed him by the arm before he could exit the dining room. "One moment," he said. "I've got to fetch your present!"

Bligh felt uncomfortable. "I didn't get you anything, mate," he said awkwardly.

"Don't worry about that," Lawrence said, waving a hand airily at him. "I'll just be a minute."

Milner and Rutledge, now arguing about John Paul Jones, also remained in the dining room as everyone else processed out. Fortunately, Lawrence really was only gone a minute. When he came back into the dining room, he was carrying three packages. He handed Milner the smallest one, Rutledge the largest, and handed Bligh a soft, medium-sized one.

"Well?" Lawrence said, looking at them expectantly. "Open them!"

Milner obeyed first. Lawrence had made him a sort of hand puppet in the form of a black rooster, much like the one that had so transfixed Milner when they had first arrived at Applebottom.

"It'll be something to remember your time at Applebottom by once you're gone," said Lawrence, clasping his hands together.

"Cheers, thanks!" said Milner, slipping the puppet on to his hand.

Lawrence turned to Rutledge next. "Edward?"

At first glance, Bligh couldn't sort out what Rutledge's gift was meant to be. After a few seconds, he realized it was a large model of Peartree, and a moment after that, Lawrence flipped open the roof of the house to reveal—

"A partridge!" exclaimed Rutledge, obviously thrilled. "In a Peartree!" He and Lawrence laughed heartily. "I shall name him Lawrence!"

Lawrence tittered, reddening slightly.

Bligh was mildly disturbed. "How did you do that, mate?"

"Well, one of the lads in the cooking tent is marvelous with woodworking," said Lawrence. "I drew him a sketch of the house, and he created a birdcage out of it! But enough about that." He waved a hand impatiently toward Bligh. "Open yours!"

Apprehensively, Bligh ripped the paper off his package to reveal a scarf, every bit as large and ostentatious as Lawrence's, but in a much more muted color, a reddish brown. "I knitted it myself!" Lawrence said happily as Bligh unfolded it. "I thought you should have a sort of brown, but then dark brown seemed too drab, so I decided on sepia!"

"Wow," said Bligh, looking down at the scarf skeptically.

"Here, let me help you!" said Lawrence, seizing the scarf and tying it around Bligh's neck. "Oh, it looks marvelous!"

"Thanks, mate," said Bligh, and he meant it. Even though he would never have worn such a scarf if it had been his choice, he appreciated the time that Lawrence had put into the gift.

"Oh, it was nothing," said Lawrence, but Bligh could see that his eyes were glistening suspiciously. "Let's go have a song!"

"Merry Christmas, Lawrence!" said Rutledge, smiling at Lawrence as he stroked his new partridge.

As they all walked out into the foyer, Bligh echoed, "Merry Christmas."

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Kat had insisted on staying in the music room after dinner, with the result that Tavington had been forced into the role of "Six geese a-laying" in Lawrence's rousingly interactive chorus of "The Twelve Days of Christmas." He had gone along with it because it was Christmas Eve, but enough was enough. As Lawrence and Milner launched into "What Child Is This?", Tavington leaned over to whisper into Kat's ear. "I have had quite enough. Let us retire." She looked at him as if to protest, but Tavington had already risen, pulling her up along with him.

"Merry Christmas to all," he said, bowing to the room at large.

"And to all a good night!" Kat added. For some reason, this made her laugh hysterically—but then, so did many things, few of which Tavington comprehended. He sighed and steered her forcibly out of the room and up the stairs, wondering if she should really have drunk quite so much in her condition.

"I have something for you," Kat said as they reached their bedroom.

"I know," he said, shutting the door behind them.

Kat looked at him, bewildered. "You do?"

"Allow me to guess," he said, stepping toward her and taking her hands in his. "You have been planning for several weeks now to tell me, but you elected to wait until Christmas for such a momentous announcement. An admirable choice, my dear, but—" he dropped a kiss on her knuckles— "yes, I am afraid I already know."

She looked wary. "Just so we're clear, what do you know?"

"That you are with child, of course," he said, chuckling at her attempt at coyness.

She sighed. "I was afraid of this," she said, shutting her eyes. When she opened them again, they were suspiciously wet. "I'm not."

"You're not?" Now Tavington was bewildered.

"I'm not pregnant, no."

"But—you said you had something for me!" He was not quite sure whether he believed her. Perhaps she was angry that he had ruined her surprise?

"I'm sorry, William," she said, tears now welling in her eyes. "I wish I were, but—I'm not."

Tavington inhaled deeply. "Never mind," he said, dropping her hands. It could do no good to have her crying about it; better to be proactive. "I didn't mean to upset you. We shall simply have to—remedy that." Immediately.

She laughed shakily. "I guess so. But in the meantime, can I give you your present?"

He had forgotten that she had a gift for him in the tension of the moment. "Yes," he said, wondering what it might be.

She went over to the wardrobe and returned with a small wooden box. "Open it," she said, placing it in his hand and watching him closely.

He removed the lid of the box to discover a ring, silver with an oddly shaped blue stone in the center. He took it out to look at it more closely, wondering what she meant by giving him a ring like this.

"It's a ring I got from Paris," she said, blinking furiously as she watched him examine it.

He looked at her suspiciously. "I thought you said you'd never been to Paris."

She blushed deeply. "Oh—no, I haven't. It was a gift. But I want you to have it now, because you gave me your mother's ring, and because—" she took a deep breath— "because my heart belongs to you now."

Tavington eyed the ring again. She must have been mad, imagining that he would wear something so obviously feminine—but then again, the sentiment behind the gift had undoubtedly been real. It was time to give her his gift, though he was somewhat hesitant. Ah, well, there was nothing for it now—and it would, hopefully, induce her to stop her constant displays of affection when they were in public.

He looked into her eyes, sparkling in the candlelight. "Kat," he said. "I love you."

If he had thought she might be on the verge of tears before, it was nothing to her reaction at his words. She began to cry almost instantly. "Oh, _William_," she gasped, throwing her arms around his neck. "I thought you'd never say it."

"Yes, well." He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close, and kissed the top of her head. "It is Christmas, after all." Now—on to securing an heir.

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	29. Bye Bye Bye

_January 1781_

Ever since our conversation on Christmas Eve, William had made it quite clear that he wanted a baby, ASAP. I wasn't convinced that I was ready to raise a child, but I was willing to try. Except that I kept coming back to what Mithuna had told me.

"What did that _mean_?" I demanded one morning when I ran into her in the breakfast room. "When you said I wouldn't have children 'until the future is past'?"

She looked up from her knitting and regarded me serenely. "What do you think it meant?"

I hated it when she talked in riddles. Which was, come to think of it, all the time. "I guess—that I can't have a baby yet? That I have to wait?"

Mithuna smiled and turned back to her knitting. I crossed my arms and sighed loudly. "Well?"

"You must find your own answers," she said, not bothering to look up this time. "And your own future."

"_Fine_," I said. "I'll be sure to come chat with you again the next time I'm in need of a poorly translated fortune cookie." She ignored me, unsurprisingly, and I stalked out of the room, feeling decidedly antagonistic. Mithuna was _not_ on my good list.

That had been several weeks ago; now it was mid-January, and I was still definitely not pregnant. Fortunately for me, William had been too busy in the last week to bother me about it excessively. From what I could gather, the Continental Army was planning something big to the north, near the border with North Carolina. Everyone had been running around like mad, to and from camp and within the confines of Applebottom itself; I'd barely seen my husband outside of the few hours we had together each night.

Consequently, I had to gather my news from other sources. Like eavesdropping. To be fair, it wasn't entirely on purpose—I happened to be passing the library just before dinner and I heard Lord Rawdon's voice. "…will be in position late tomorrow and make camp for the night, Milord. They march at daybreak."

"And we anticipate that the rebel militia will move into position—when?"

I chanced a glance through the crack in the door. Cornwallis and Lord Rawdon were bent over a map. Both of them looked much more concerned than I had seen them in some time.

"Scouting reports indicate that they will be prepared to attack the day after tomorrow."

Cornwallis sighed heavily. "Cowpens," he said. "Seems an unlikely place for a skirmish, does it not? These colonial towns do have the oddest names!"

I had heard enough—'skirmish' didn't sound too serious to me. I was just about to creep away quietly when I heard Rawdon's next words. "Are you quite sure, Milord, that Colonel Tavington should be given so much control in this stage of the campaign?"

I froze, listening intently. "Whatever you may dislike about him personally, Rawdon, the Colonel is perfectly suited to such an assignment. He has never yet lost a battle, and I have faith that he will continue that trend."

Rawdon still sounded unconvinced. "Forgive me, Milord, but I would remind you that we are committing enormous resources to his care. The Dragoons, of course, but also the 71st Highlanders, the Royal Fusiliers—these are troops we cannot afford to lose!"

"I have made my decision, Rawdon!" blustered Cornwallis, obviously annoyed. "Tavington has all the makings of a fine general. His instincts are infallible, his tactics brilliant, and I intend to use him in whatever capacity I see fit!"

"As you wish, Milord," said Rawdon with an air of finality. I hurried around the corner and into the parlor, my heart pounding, and collapsed into a chair.

_That_ was the reason for the increased activity, for everyone running around everywhere. Even if it was only a 'skirmish,' it sounded damn serious to me—but then why would William, and not Rawdon or Cornwallis, be in command? And why hadn't he told me? I'd gotten used to the idea that there was a lot that he had to keep from me, though I didn't much like it. Several times before, he had been gone for a night, but he had always told me before he left. In these circumstances, I never asked too many questions—I figured I didn't really want to know what he was doing.

This time, though—I had a bad feeling. I resolved to ask him about it the second he arrived at Applebottom. As it turned out, he didn't arrive until well after dinner, and I was already in bed reading when the door to my room opened.

"Good evening," William said, sounding subdued. He looked exhausted, and I felt a sudden surge of affection that made me forget what I had meant to talk to him about.

"Oh!" I said, remembering suddenly. I leapt out of bed and intercepted his path toward the wardrobe, hands on my hips. "What exactly is going on at Cowpens, and when were you planning to tell me?"

He sighed heavily. "Quite honestly, I wasn't planning to tell you, as I had an odd notion you might find out for yourself."

"Well, I did. Sort of. But I want to hear from you what's happening." I was not exactly pleased at his outright admittance that he was trying to avoid telling me about something.

He sank onto the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. "The rebel militia has amassed near Cowpens, as you have clearly heard. General Lord Cornwallis is sending several regiments, as well as the Dragoons, to assail them, and I am to command the force."

"And you weren't going to _tell_ me about this?" My voice was rising in both pitch and volume, but I didn't care. "You were just going to sneak off without saying goodbye?"

"It's hardly an affair important enough to cause you any anxiety," he said, pulling his waistcoat off.

"I don't care!" I practically shrieked. "You have to tell me these things! I am your _wife_!"

He raised an eyebrow at the vehemence of my speech. "All right," he said calmly. "I have been assigned to move north, with several hundred men, to harass some battalions of rebel troops at Cowpens. My infantry will march at dawn, and I shall follow with the Dragoons shortly after midnight."

"Midnight—tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," he said testily, standing up. "Have you any more questions? If so, please pose them now, as I should like to get some rest before then."

"No, no more questions," I said sweetly. "I wouldn't want to interfere. I'm sure there are good reasons you weren't planning to tell me that you're commanding a few hundred soldiers in what is obviously a minor skirmish."

He looked at me warily. "Much as I wish to believe that you are in earnest, I am sure that is a fanciful notion rather than a reality."

"Oh no," I said lightly, climbing back into bed. "I won't bother you with any more questions tonight." I waited until he had crawled into bed next to me before I continued, "I'll just have to see for myself."

"I beg your pardon," he growled.

"I'm coming with you," I said firmly.

"No, you are not." He turned the full intensity of his ice-blue gaze on me, but I didn't blink.

"Yes, I am."

"We have had this discussion before. You have defied my wishes before. You _will_ obey me this time."

"Make me," I said.

He had positioned himself over me before I had a chance to react. His face very close to mine, he breathed, "If I have to set an armed guard on you, you will not stray from this house."

Frightened, I could only nod at him. "I have your word?" he said, and I nodded again, my fingers crossed beneath the blankets. He considered me for a moment, still frowning, then rolled back to his own side of the bed, blowing out the candle on his nightstand.

I took a deep breath and steeled my nerves. "Does this have anything to do with Thomas Jefferson?"

His head whipped back toward me, his eyes narrow blue slits. "Why do you ask?"

"It just seems like all of the increased activity around camp started about the same time you got those dispatches about him, moving the capital and everything. I thought maybe there was some connection."

"I assure you, there is none," he said, still glaring at me.

"But then why—?"

"While I should like to continue this conversation, I beg your leave to postpone it," he snapped, "as I have a great deal to do tomorrow and require some amount of sleep before then."

I didn't understand why he always got so upset when Thomas Jefferson's name was mentioned, but I decided it was best to let it go. I blew out my candle and huddled down into the blankets, thinking. "William?" I said after a moment. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad."

He sighed. "It's all right."

I wriggled my way across the bed until my back was pressed against his chest. "Promise you'll be careful?" I said.

He put his arms around me. "I shall," he said.

I felt so warm, so secure in his arms that I was half asleep already. "You better," I said drowsily, "or you'll be in serious trouble."

He chuckled and kissed my hair.

"I love you," I murmured, and gave into sleep. I'd come up with a plan tomorrow.

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The next day raced by, perhaps because everyone seemed in such a frenzy. I was busy making my own preparations; I was determined to nurse at Cowpens, and I was going to have to follow the Dragoons if I wanted to get there. Following the Dragoons without being seen would be tricky, though, and I would be sent back to Applebottom immediately if I was discovered. Fortunately, I had a plan.

"Lieutenant!" I whispered loudly to Bligh as he crossed the foyer, a large map of South Carolina in his huge hands. He started and glanced around. "Over here!" I hissed, beckoning him into the parlor. He looked confused, but followed me into the room.

"I need your help, Lieutenant," I said. "I'm riding with the Dragoons tomorrow."

He looked even more bewildered. "You are?"

"Yes, and Colonel Tavington is not to know about it."

The bemusement on his face quickly gave way to something like panic. "Mrs. Tavington," he began, "I'm not certain that's the best—"

"Listen," I interrupted, eying him sternly. "I have no intention of staying here at Applebottom while everyone I know is at Cowpens. I want to know what's going on as it happens. And they could certainly use my help in the medical tent. Now, are you going to help me?"

Looking cowed, Bligh nodded reluctantly.

"Good," I said firmly. "Okay, so—I need you to find me a coat. Oh, and some boots. And a hat. Can you get me those?"

He nodded again, though he was obviously less than thrilled. "I'll bring them this afternoon."

"It's got to be before the Colonel gets here, though," I said, hoping this would work.

"Aye," he said.

"And I'll need to ride near you, so you can make sure no one notices me." He looked positively terrified at this, but he didn't object. "Lawrence included, if you can manage it. I need this to be a secret."

"Aye," said Bligh again.

"Well—thank you," I said. He nodded once more and disappeared. I felt slightly apprehensive, but I knew I could trust Bligh.

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Bligh rather felt, as he rode back to camp from Applebottom, that he had signed his own death warrant. If the Colonel _ever_ found out that he had assisted Mrs. Tavington in her crazy endeavor to be a Dragoon for a day… But it wasn't as though he was in a position to refuse her. He would just have to steal half of Lawrence's clothing—though that was easier said than done, given how protective Lawrence was of his wardrobe. Hopefully, he would have a stroke of luck, and Lawrence wouldn't be in the tent when he arrived.

But of course that wasn't how it happened. In fact, when Bligh ducked into the tent they shared, Lawrence appeared to be stuck between their two cots, his backside hanging down into the space between the cots as his limbs flailed comically.

"What are you doing, eh?" said Bligh, regarding his friend with interest.

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" snapped Lawrence irritably.

"I don't know, mate, that's why I asked," said Bligh.

"Well, I was _trying_ to catch a bit of sleep before afternoon formation, and I must have somehow stretched out across both cots, because when I awoke, I was wedged into this unfortunate position!" Lawrence glared at Bligh. "Would you kindly stop staring at me like that and help me get out?"

Bligh extended a mammoth hand and hauled his fellow lieutenant to his feet. "_Thank_ you," said Lawrence, still glaring at Bligh. "Now, if you don't mind, I have important matters to attend to."

"Right," said Bligh. "Say, Lawrence, you know that spare waistcoat you're always saying is too small? Want me to take it to the tailor for you? I'm on my way over now."

"Oh, that would be perfectly lovely!" cried Lawrence, all animosity forgotten. "And would you be a dear thing and take my extra pair of boots to the repair shop as well? They're splitting a seam, and you know how the Colonel feels about having one's footwear be presentable." He gestured toward his trunk.

"Sure," said Bligh, grateful that his plan was working out; he had been afraid he'd be forced to give Mrs. Tavington a pair of his own gargantuan boots. He grabbed the coat and boots from where they sat atop Lawrence's trunk and seized a spare hat from his own. When he turned around again, Lawrence had pulled out his sword and was thrusting it repeatedly toward him.

"What are you doing now?" Bligh was more than slightly alarmed.

"Practicing my parry and thrust!" said Lawrence. "I feel as though it's listing slightly to the left."

"Looks fine to me," said Bligh, taking the pile of clothing and ducking out of the tent as quickly as he could. "I'll be back soon, mate."

But Lawrence, busy with his mock swordplay, did not seem to hear him.

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Bligh was as good as his word, and well before dinnertime, I was in possession of the boots, coat, and hat of a Green Dragoon. I had tried on the coat quickly, and it fit; I wondered if it might be Lawrence's, as he wasn't much taller than me. I wished, in retrospect, that I had asked for a sword, too, but I would just have to hope no one noticed me—if they did, my lack of a sword would be the least of my troubles. In any case, I was ready for tomorrow, though I couldn't help feeling nervous.

As I stashed my "uniform" under the bed, a knock came at the door. Panicked, I shoved the boots in after the coat, praying it wasn't William home early. But I opened the door to find—

"Good evening, Mrs. Tavington!" drawled Edward Rutledge, bowing. "I wonder if I might come in?"

"Sure," I said, wondering this could possibly be about.

As he entered the room, I saw that he was carrying a large book that looked vaguely familiar. "Would you mind?" he said, nodding toward the door.

"Of course not." I closed the door, now mystified. "Can I help you with something?"

Rutledge smiled enigmatically. "Mrs. Tavington," he began. "Do you happen to recall our first conversation together, shortly after I arrived back at Peartree?"

I frowned, thinking. As far as I recalled, our first conversation had been one in which Rutledge schooled me in ladies' fashion…and… "The Declaration?" I said.

He nodded. "Exactly so. Mrs. Tavington, I wonder if you would accept this as a gift from me?" He handed me the book. I glanced down at it, wondering why he would give me a book about—

"_Fruits and Flowers of South Carolina!_" I gasped, flipping it open. Inside sat the Declaration of Independence, just where I had put it all those months ago. I closed it again, very carefully, and looked at Rutledge. "You—you brought it with you?"

He smiled. "Having once left it behind at Peartree in my absence, I was unwilling to do so again. I was contemplating the contents of my trunk this morning and wondering what on earth I should do with it—virtually all junk, you know, just taking up space—and I came across that book. I thought perhaps you might like to keep it."

"I can't take the Declaration!" I said. "It belongs to you! You _signed _it!"

Rutledge laughed. "So I did—but it does not belong to me. It belongs to the people of these United States. And one of them, my dear Mrs. Tavington, is you. Unless your views on the subject have changed?"

"No! No," I said firmly, "I would love to keep it. I just—I don't know what to say, honestly."

"You needn't say anything at all," he assured me. "Please consider it—a belated Christmas present."

"Thank you," I said sincerely.

"Not at all," he said, bowing. "If you will pardon me, I have other business to attend to."

"Of course," I said, opening the door. "Thank you again."

"Please," he said, holding up a hand. "If I may say so, it has been a relief to share it with someone who I know appreciates it, as I do. Thank you, Mrs. Tavington."

As I closed the door behind him, I couldn't help but think that there was something odd about Rutledge giving me the Declaration. Why now? Why would he have been sorting through his trunk today, and why would it have been a "relief" to be rid of it? But I had more immediate matters to attend to—like where to hide the damn thing. I couldn't believe that I was in possession of an original copy of the Declaration of Independence, but if William ever found it…

I ended up shoving the tome far under the bed, next to the uniform Bligh had procured for me. William would never have any reason to look under the bed that I could think of, and anyway, I would find a better place for it soon. For now, though, it would have to do; it was almost time for dinner, and I couldn't act as though it was anything but a normal evening. Actually, I was starting to get extremely nervous about what the next day would bring—but I pushed those thoughts to the back of my brain and headed downstairs.

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William didn't show up for dinner. I'd gone straight back up to my room after the meal and changed into breeches and a shirt so I would be ready to go when the time came later that night. But being alone wasn't doing anything great for my anxiety, which was getting more intense by the minute. What if William didn't come home at all tonight? What if I couldn't ride with the Dragoons after all?

After what seemed like hours of pacing around the room, peering out the windows every ten seconds, I couldn't take it anymore. I had just resolved to go outside and take a walk to calm myself down when movement outside on the lawn caught my attention. I peered out the window and saw—Bligh, illuminated by the moonlight and examining the same map he'd been holding earlier when I spoke with him. He was wandering around the lawn as though looking for something, but I couldn't imagine what he was doing. Maybe I'd just go see for myself.

I stole out of my room and down the landing toward the stairs, pausing as I did so to glance out the window in the hallway. I knew perfectly well that the hall window looked in another direction entirely from the one in my room, which was why I was surprised to see a figure on the lawn from this view. How could Bligh have gotten that far around the house in only a minute? But as I looked closer, I realized it wasn't Bligh. This figure was more muscular, less lanky, and decked out in full Dragoon uniform, helmet and all. As I watched, he reached down and unsheathed a huge sword, gleaming silver and gold in the moonlight. The soldier stood, holding the sword out, and looked up at me, and as my eyes met his, clear icy blue, I realized it was—

"Kat," said William's voice from behind me, and I jumped, turning toward him. "What are you looking at?"

"William! But you're—I just saw you—" I whirled back toward the window, but the figure out on the lawn was gone. My heart was pounding a mile a minute, and I suddenly felt faint. I leaned against the wall my thoughts whirling. That vision of the sword I'd just had—I had seen it once before, the night I wandered out into the woods after my fight with Paris and woke up in 1780. And the moment I realized this, I knew with certainty—William would die tomorrow.

I looked up at him, my cheeks wet, though I hadn't realized I was crying. From the way he was looking at me, I knew I must seem crazy, but nothing could have mattered less. "Don't go tomorrow," I said pleadingly.

I knew the instant I'd said it that it was no use. "I have an obligation," he said, "a duty to King and country."

"Please," I whispered. He looked at me, concern evident in his expression.

"Come," he said, and I allowed myself to be led back to our room.

The moment he'd closed the door, he turned toward me, frowning. "Are you quite all right? Shall I ring for a servant?"

I shook my head and stepped toward him, kicking my shoes off. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled his head down, kissing him urgently. I wasn't in the mood to waste time talking. If this was the last night we had together, I wanted to remember it. Our kisses grew more intense as I slid my hands down his neck and into his shirt, loosening the neck, my fingers running across the top of his chest and tracing the muscles of his broad shoulders.

He broke the kiss long enough to pull his shirt off, then pulled me back toward him violently. I felt his soft breath on my jawbone as he trailed kisses down my neck, pausing only to tug my own shirt over my head. My body arched toward his as he ran a thumbnail up my spine, my hands gripping his shoulders for support as sweet delirium set in. He dropped a kiss on my throat, and a soft moan escaped me before his lips were on mine once more, and I wanted nothing more than to lose myself in this moment, to shake my feeling of impending doom.

William's hands slid down my back and grasped me firmly, pulling my hips toward his as my arms wrapped tightly around his neck. I hoisted myself up, wrapping my legs around his waist, and he carried me to the bed and laid me down upon it. His kisses moved from my collarbone to between my breasts, ever downward as he urged my breeches off, driving me almost crazy with desire. A moment later he had rid himself of his own trousers, and as his arms enfolded me once more, nothing else existed but his body and mine, moving together as the rest of the world swirled around us.

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William got up what seemed like minutes later and began to dress. I sat up instantly, more awake than I would have thought possible after so little sleep. "You're going already?"

"I must," he said, pulling on his boots and snatching up his waistcoat from where it lay in an armchair. "The Dragoons ride in an hour."

"Do you have to go back to the camp before then?" I tried to sound uninterested.

"No," he said, now buttoning up his coat. "The regiment will assemble here, as Applebottom is further north than camp."

I knew that this would be the last time we spoke before the battle. "William," I said, sitting up on my knees and reaching a supplicating toward him. "Please—be careful."

He took my hand and kissed my knuckles, coming to stand next to the edge of the bed. "Believe me, Kat, you have no cause for concern. I have little intention of leaving this world without first having secured an heir."

I could only respond by kissing him deeply. A moment later he broke away, his blue eyes searching my own. "Goodbye," he said, and disappeared.

I waited until I was sure he'd gone, then leapt out of bed and locked the door. After my vision last night, I was more certain than ever that I needed to be at Cowpens, monitoring William carefully. I was determined to keep him safe, and I would find some way to do it. I pulled my Dragoon gear out from under the bed, leaving _Fruits and Flowers of South Carolina_ there until I had time to find a more secure place for it. I dressed quickly, winning a brief struggle against the stiff buttons on the waistcoat, and piled my hair in a bun atop my head. I peered into the mirror at my dressing table as I pulled the hat on over my hair. I still didn't look precisely masculine, but I doubted anyone would notice me in the pre-dawn darkness.

I crept out of my room, listening intently for any sounds that would indicate that anyone was awake, but the house was utterly silent. I tiptoed across the foyer to the front door, and opened it quietly to find Bligh standing directly in front of me.

"Jeez!" I gasped, my heart pounding. "You scared me!"

"Sorry," Bligh said in a loud whisper. "I came to find you. I fetched you a horse from the stable. You'd better come now, before everyone's already assembled."

"Thanks," I said. I peered past him into the front courtyard and saw a whole company of Dragoons milling about their horses.

"Follow me," said Bligh. He lead me to a large apple tree, where two chestnut horses were tethered. I shivered in the January chill, hugging my arms to my chest.

Bligh looked at me, then pulled out a flask. "Whisky?" he said, offering it to me.

"Um…sure," I said. I took a tentative swig, choking slightly as the alcohol burned its way down my throat. I took another sip and then handed it back to Bligh. It was a good whisky, as far as my experience went. "Now what?" I said, scanning the crowd for William.

"We wait for orders." We stood in silence for a few minutes. I finally spotted William. He was standing on the veranda with Captain Schoen, surveying the Dragoons. A moment later, Lawrence bounded up onto the veranda, speaking earnestly to William. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but my husband's body language indicated intense irritation.

"To horse!" yelled Lawrence, and all around me, hundreds of men mounted their steeds.

"Stay with me," muttered Bligh. "We'll be riding fast, but we need to stay toward the back."

I nodded, still watching William. I saw him ride past at the head of the column, and I was more determined than ever to save him from whatever fate awaited him at Cowpens. Urging my horse into a trot, I rode through the gates out of Applebottom, Bligh at my side.

Some three hours later, dawn was breaking. I had spent the entirety of the ride dreaming up ways to ensure that William remained safe, but the more immediate concern of the light eliminating my disguise drove these thoughts from my head. Not long after I had begun to worry about this, though, I heard a call from far up the column, and we slowed to a halt.

"What's going on?" I hissed to Bligh.

"We're nearing Cowpens," he said in a low voice, dismounting. "We'll wait here until battle begins, then ride in as Colonel Tavington commands."

"What should I do?"

"Stay here until we start to ride," he said, sounding calmer than I felt. "We'll ride at the back, and I'll point you toward the hospital tent before we hit the battlefield."

I nodded and slid off of my horse, noting as I did so that another Dragoon was approaching Bligh. I reached into my saddlebag and brought out a flask, hoping it contained water. It did, and I drank thirstily in what I hoped was a masculine manner.

I put the flask back into the bag and turned around, finding myself face to face with Lieutenant Lawrence.

"Mrs. Ta—" he began to exclaim, but Bligh clapped a huge hand over his mouth, glaring at him.

"Quiet," he said.

My stomach had dropped at seeing Lawrence there—not because I didn't like him, but because I was afraid he'd accidentally reveal my identity. "Hello," I said warily.

Lawrence shoved Bligh's hand away and glared back at him, then turned back to me. "You know, I spent the whole ride looking for my friend here," he said in a stage whisper, indicating Bligh. "I was beginning to think he'd deserted! But now I've discovered his secret!" Lawrence chuckled, but Bligh looked extremely uncomfortable. "In any case, I'm thrilled to see you, Mrs. Tavington, though I must say I am unable to account for the pleasure."

"Lawrence," I said firmly. "The Colonel _cannot_ know that I am here."

"Oh, of course!" he said, his eyes widening. "I won't breathe a word to _anyone_!"

"Thanks," I said. "I'll be in the hospital tent if you need me."

"Right," said Lawrence, nodding seriously.

Just then, another call came from the top of the column. We all remounted and, in silence, began our final ride toward Cowpens.

A few minutes later, we stopped again. This time, there was a tense excitement in the air. "Are we there?" I asked Bligh quietly.

"Nearly," he said. "We'll veer west up here, I think. The hospital tent should be further up, on the northwest corner of the battlefield. If we stay at the back of the column, you should be able to break off and make your way around through the trees without anyone noticing."

"Okay," I said, suddenly feeling nervous. "You think I'll be able to see the battle from there?"

"Dunno," said Bligh, "but I reckon you should take off your coat and hat as soon as you break from us. And you'll probably want to leave your horse in the trees somewhere and out of the way."

"Thank you," I said sincerely. "Good luck, both of you." I leaned around Bligh to give Lawrence an encouraging smile.

Bligh nodded solemnly, and Lawrence tipped his hat to me. "And you, Mrs. Tavington! Hopefully we shall not be requiring your services! In the hospital tent, I mean," he added hastily.

Just then, the Dragoons in front of us started to move, and I spurred my horse on to keep up, Bligh and Lawrence still next to me. Perhaps half a mile later, the turned sharply west, just as Bligh had predicted. I slowed my horse to a walk and hung back as the Dragoons rode into battle.

I felt very lonely as I watched Bligh and Lawrence disappear into the woods in front of me. But then I thought of the man leading them, and I realized I had no time to spare. Guiding my horse off the path, I dismounted, removing my hat and coat and stuffing them into the saddlebag. The problem was that I was now freezing—I'd forgotten that it was January and I didn't have another coat. Shivering, I remounted and urged the horse deeper into the woods. With any luck, I'd find the hospital tent before I froze.

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Things were not going well, that much was evident from the beginning. The moment he rode out onto the field with the Dragoons, Bligh could see that they had ridden straight into a trap. Caught between the fire of the entire colonial force and their own cannons, there seemed little chance for escape, let alone victory.

He lost track of Lawrence almost immediately. In the confusion of battle, even Lawrence's bright scarf was not easily spotted—though, come to think of it, Lawrence shouldn't have worn it into battle just in case, the idiot. All Bligh could do was clear a path for himself back toward the top of the hill they had galloped down when they charged the field and find a vantage point from which he could determine where he was most needed.

Bligh drew his horse to a halt near the top of the hill. He seemed to be in the eye of the storm, but around him, all was chaos. The colonial militia was seemingly unstoppable, swarming around the Dragoons and forcing them off their horses into hand-to-hand combat even as their cannons fired time and again into the British regiments. The 71st Highlanders looked especially outnumbered, but Bligh couldn't help but admire the single-mindedness with which they fought. He looked around for Tavington, wondering if the ever-successful Colonel might be preparing to concede defeat in battle for the first time, or if he perhaps had another trick up his sleeve.

At last he located the Colonel, some yards away in the fray. But as Bligh began to guide his horse toward where Tavington stood, the Colonel was galloping furiously toward some unseen target, sword raised high to attack. A moment later, he had been thrown from his horse, and Bligh could do nothing but watch in dismay, cyclopean hands wrapped around the barrel of his musket, as the scene played out.

Tavington rose slowly from the ground, turning toward his assailant—who, Bligh now saw, was a member of the militia. He looked vaguely familiar, but before Bligh had time to puzzle over where he could have seen the man before, he was pointing his pistol directly at the head of the Colonel, who seemed too stunned to react. But just as the rebel fired, the blast from a cannon erupted behind him, sending his shot to the side. Bligh couldn't tell for sure whether the Colonel had been hit, but he certainly hadn't sustained any serious injury. A blazing look in his eye, he drew his sword and ran toward the rebel, who pulled out his axe.

They were well-matched, but Tavington gradually proved that he had the advantage. He dealt his opponent a savage blow across the chest, and as the man stumbled back, he knelt to seize a blade from the ground. Now both men were fighting with a weapon in each hand, and it appeared that Tavington no longer had the upper hand; he stumbled repeatedly backward as the other man rained a series of blows down behind him. But Tavington rallied, striking the rebel down and knocking his axe far away. The rebel was using his musket as a shield now, and as he fell to his knees, Tavington behind him, it seemed that the Colonel had triumphed. Tavington raised his sword and swung it down toward his opponent's neck, but at the last moment, the man ducked, driving his bayonet directly into Tavington's abdomen.

Tavington froze, choking, and Bligh's heart seemed to skip a beat. The rebel raised his bayonet to Tavington's throat; Bligh was standing to the rear and didn't have a clear view, but from the way his commander crumpled, he knew the battle, both for the Colonel and for the British, was over.

All of the British troops who had seen Tavington fall seemed to be immobilized in shock. But Bligh had no time to waste, stricken though he was by the loss of his commander; he knew what he had to do, and it would have to be now. The battle was turning into a massacre, and he must accomplish his task before the opportunity was lost. Ignoring Captain Schoen's frantic call to retreat, Bligh turned and galloped resolutely toward the northwest corner of the battlefield.

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I had found the hospital tent without much trouble. Fortunately for me, the same doctor who had been in charge at Camden was there and seemed to recognize me, so my announcement that I was there to help hadn't caused much of a stir. Unfortunately, however, I was kept so busy that I had almost no time to watch the progress of the battle, or try to look for William. Much as I wanted to, I knew that my rushing blindly into battle with the intent of saving him would have anything but the desired effect. So I worked, and watched when I could.

The steady stream of injuries seemed to increase as the morning wore on, and soon I was bandaging more bayonet wounds than I knew what to do with. Toward noon, a tall, strongly-built man stumbled into the tent. I noticed his kilt first, and then his striking dark red hair; it was the same Scotsman whose shoulder I had bandaged at Camden. I tried to catch his eye to greet him, but his distraught expression stopped me. Before I could ask how the battle was going, he bellowed in his thick accent, "The field is lost. Colonel Tavington has fallen. _Retreat_."

I couldn't hear anything but the pounding in my ears. I had no time to waste—no time—I had to get to William now—before… I realized vaguely that I had dropped everything I was holding, that there were people who needed my help, but all of that paled in comparison…_William_….

I raced out of the tent, tears blurring my vision, and straight into a pair of arms that encircled me painfully tightly. "Let go!" I shrieked, panicking, but the arms hoisted me up and carried me away from the battle, toward the woods. "I have to go—I have to get—get to the battle—let me _go_!" I kicked fiercely, but my assailant had a death grip.

Once we were into the woods, he set me down, and I crumpled to the ground, exhausted. "Mrs. Tavington," said a familiar voice.

I brushed the tears out of my eyes and looked up to find Bligh looking down at me gravely. "What the _hell_ are you doing?" I cried, leaping to my feet. "I have to get to William!"

"Mrs. Tavington, listen to me." Bligh gripped my upper arms tightly, holding me in place. "It's too late for that. You have to get out of here."

"What? No—I have to get to the battle! I have to find William!" Why wouldn't he listen to me, what didn't he understand?

"I saw him fall," said Bligh heavily. "There's nothing you can do."

"But I—but—" I felt faint, my heart still pounding as though it would burst out of my chest.

"I'm sorry," he said, "truly sorry. But you need to leave."

"I—but—I can't remember where I left my horse." I couldn't remember anything now, could barely remember where I was.

"No, Mrs. Tavington, I mean—you need to go back. To your own time."

My eyes widened in shock. If anything could have focused me on what was happening, it was that. "What did you say?"

"I said, it's time for you to go back. There's nothing for you here now. Colonel Tavington is gone, the British will lose this war—and as we speak, there are about a thousand colonial troops marching this way. You need to go home. To your own century."

"How did you know?" I gasped, astonished. Everyone had always thought I was a little odd for wearing pants and generally flouting social conventions, but how could Bligh have learned my secret?

"The way you speak, your very 21st-century manners, your occasional references to things that haven't yet been invented. Oh, and the sweatpants you were wearing when the Dragoons found you." Now that he had my attention, Bligh let go of me.

"I still don't understand."

He sighed heavily. "I was born in 1756 near Manchester. England. But since I was 15 or so, I've been travelling. Between times, that is."

"You're lying," I said automatically.

"No, I'm not. Would you mind if we walk as we talk? We need to head north, and we haven't got much time." Bligh grabbed my arm, pulling me along with him.

"Prove it," I said, centering my attention on the skepticism I felt in order to avoid thinking about—about the battle.

Bligh released my arm and rubbed his chin with a broad hand for a moment, thinking, then began to whistle. I recognized the song immediately.

"'Love Generation'!" I gasped. "I love that song! But it came out last summer—well, summer 2006, I mean."

"Which was the last time I was there," he said. "George W. Bush was your president, Tony Blair was the British Prime Minister, the World Cup was in Germany. Montenegro became a country. I bought my first iPod. Accidentally downloaded that Gwen Stefani song—do you know 'Hollaback Girl'? Bloody thing still gets stuck in my head sometimes." He looked pained.

"I don't understand," I said after a moment, still tripping along behind him. "How did you get—here?"

"The same way you did, I would imagine," he said. "Without going into detail—I stumbled on a portal, found myself in—1999, I think it was. The whole world was in a dither about Y2K."

"Portal?" I said, now cognizant enough to realize that this was the most surreal conversation I'd ever had.

"That's what we call them," said Bligh. "It appears there's a sort of gap in the time-space continuum that allows you to slip between centuries."

"Then why couldn't I go back the way I came?"

"They seal themselves after they've been used once. My job is to find them. I search for places that travelers are known to have come from, and I find patterns and plot them."

"Why?"

"I'm a cartographer," said Bligh. "I make maps."

"Wait—did everyone know? Lawrence and—everyone?"

"No," he said firmly. "My orders were to tell no one."

"Then why'd you tell me?" I wanted to know who he was working for, but I didn't think I could handle any more information right now.

"Because you need to get home," he said, "and I needed you to believe me." He halted suddenly, throwing an arm out to stop me. "There," he said, pointing.

"That's—a portal?" It didn't look like anything to me, just a grove of trees. "How do you know?"

"There are signs," he said mysteriously. "I know a portal when I see one."

I looked at him, and I suddenly realized what this would mean if he was serious. I could see my parents again, and Paris, I could go to Harvard, I could take hot showers again and watch "America's Next Top Model" and find out how Harry Potter ended—but it would mean leaving behind the life I'd built for myself here, and all of the people I'd come to love.

"Mrs. Tavington," Bligh said, interrupting my reverie. "It's time."

"What about you?" I said, suddenly concerned. "Don't you need to get back? To the future? I mean, you just basically deserted from a battle! Won't you get in trouble for that?"

"I can find other portals. You needn't worry about me. Now, when you arrive, you'll need a story." Bligh looked at me seriously, and I realized I hadn't even thought about the most important question.

"Wait! What year will I end up in? Can I control it?"

"Not really," said Bligh. "It seems that you're sort of stuck with regard to the time frame. It's always 227 years for me—if I leave here in January 1781, let's say, I'll end up in January 2008. But you should be able to get a few months if you concentrate. When did you leave, eh?"

"June 2007."

"Huh," he said. "227 for you, too. Seems to be a trend."

"So if I don't—you know, steer—I'll end up in January 2008?" He nodded. "You think I could get back to June?"

"I doubt it, and quite honestly, I'm not certain it's a good idea. A two-week absence will almost be harder to explain than a two-month one when you've been through as much as you have."

"And my story…?"

"Running away from home is a good one. Kidnapping, too."

I shuddered, but nodded. After everything I had been through today, inventing a story to explain my months-long absence would be a piece of cake. "And I'll end up where I leave from?"

He nodded. "And it shouldn't turn out to be a highway or anything like that. The portals have to work both ways, which generally means they aren't in the way of traffic."

Generally? Great, now I had another thing to worry about. Should I really go through with this? I had friends here, friends who had become like family to me—Bligh, obviously, and Lawrence, and Cornwallis, and Edward. And there was William—I gasped, a wave of fresh pain washing over me. I had been so willing to be distracted by Bligh and his talk of time travel that I had been pushing away any thought of my husband. I couldn't begin to conceive of life without him here—and that, more than anything, was an impetus for me to leave. If I didn't have to live my life with him conspicuously absent, maybe it would make the pain of losing him easier to bear.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Tavington?" Bligh said, peering concernedly at me.

"Call me Jess," I said, doing my best to smile at him through the tears that were flowing freely down my cheeks.

"I thought your name was Kat," he said, frowning.

"Not where I'm from," I said firmly. "Not where I'm going to."

He nodded, still looking faintly bemused. I stepped forward and gave him a tight hug. "Thank you for everything," I said. He patted me awkwardly.

"Not at all," he said as I released him.

"Will I ever see you again?" I asked, realizing the question was pointless. "Well, I guess time will tell, right?" I laughed feebly at my own joke.

"Dunno," said Bligh, shrugging. "You'd better go, Mrs.—Jess, I mean. The rebels will be here any moment."

I nodded; I could hear faint drums in the distance. "Good luck, Bligh."

"You too," he said, nodding.

I took a deep breath and turned my back toward him. Steeling my nerves, I stepped forward into the trees—and into my future.

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	30. Epilogue

_June 2009_

It was hot for Boston, even for June. I was sweating as I walked across Harvard Square, but the heat was the last thing on my mind.

The air conditioning enveloped me as I pulled open the heavy door and stepped into the library. Normally, I would have made a beeline for my usual study spot, a cozy armchair in the third floor room that housed the majority of the American History books. But finals were over, all of my papers turned in, and today, I was on a mission. I passed the circulation desk and headed up the back stairs to the reference room.

I didn't spend much time in the reference room, but I still knew my way around. I'd practically lived in the library during my first two years at Harvard, and by now, there was very little I wasn't familiar with. Still, as I neared the shelf I needed, my pace slowed. Was I really ready for this? Did I even _want_ to know?

I had spent virtually every waking minute for the last two years, since I arrived back home in September 2007, trying not to think about William Tavington. As he had been involved in virtually every memory I had from the time I had been gone, that basically meant I didn't allow myself to think about any of it. But I couldn't keep my life back then—or William—out of my dreams. And maybe it was stress, but lately I had been having more frequent, and more intense, dreams about him than ever. I had the oddest feeling, like something between us wasn't quite settled; and, impossible though I knew that to be, I couldn't shake it.

I stood for a moment, looking at the rows of shelves and twisting the ring on the fourth finger of my right hand—I hadn't been able to bring myself to stop wearing my wedding band, though moving it to my right hand generally prevented awkward questions. "Come _on_, Jess, get a grip," I muttered to myself, and walked forward into the stacks that contained the _Who's Who_ books. As I pulled out the volume containing the T's, I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.

Part of my rationale for looking William up now was of a pragmatic nature: I was studying abroad in London for the next academic year, and I wanted to see if there was any sort of memorial to William's family in England that I could visit, though I knew that was highly unlikely. And the other part…I thought that maybe, if I saw his name on a page (something I had steadfastly avoided in my academic reading—a difficult task, as I was an American History and Archaeology double major), it might make him less real to me. Easier to let go of.

I flipped through the book, glancing at the names on top of the pages to guide me. Talleyrand…Tapley… "_Tavington_," I breathed, willing myself to look down at the page below and absorb whatever kernels of information it gave me.

Taking a deep breath, I looked down and began to read, savoring each word. "Tavington, Sir William." _Sir_? Well, that was obviously a mistake. I'd have to write in to the publishers. "Born 1752, Liverpool, England." At least that part was right. I looked down at the next words, and my heart nearly stopped.

"Died 1833, Shropshire, England."

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**AN: Well, there it is. After more than a year and well over 100 000 words, this story has come to an end. I hope you've enjoyed it, and I want to thank you for your encouragement along the way. When I started writing, I never envisioned that this story would go anywhere past the first couple of chapters, but you all gave me the motivation to continue, and I appreciate it sincerely.**

**As was probably evident from the epilogue, I am planning to write a sequel, though not immediately. I would appreciate any sort of constructive criticism you might be able to offer—anything you liked about "The Colonel's Lady," anything you didn't, what might have been unclear, characters you might want to know more about.**

**On a related note, before everyone starts flaming me for making Bligh a time-traveler seemingly out of nowhere, allow me to say that he has been a time-traveler from the moment his character was created, and I've tried to drop in subtle hints along the way, but not so many that it would be obvious; if you look back at some of his scenes, perhaps you'll find some anachronisms about him. I hope I've succeeded in surprising you! (And now that I've had my say, you may flame as you see fit.)**

**Finally, I have to thank TTT, purveyor of plots and faithful beta, who has been there from the **_**very**_** beginning and without whom this story would simply not exist; and SSS, whose turns of phrase and general support have assisted me throughout. This last chapter is dedicated to Lieutenant Bligh, Lieutenant Lawrence, and Ensign Sir Henry Milner, fine gentlemen all, who have impacted the story (and my life) in ways I could never have foreseen. To you, good sirs, I say: Huzzah!**

**Catch you all on the flip side :-)**


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